The Nature of Trust
by sss979
Summary: Trust, and love, are not attitudes that Templeton Peck defaults to. Love is a concept all but foreign, and trust towards the team was not always implicit…
1. Prologue

**THE NATURE OF TRUST**

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apparently some people do not read the warnings... PLEASE READ THEM, PEOPLE. I try to be specific, but if you're in doubt? MY OFFICIAL WARNING IS THAT I DO NOT GIVE WARNINGS. IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED OR FEEL THE NEED TO FLAME FOR THINGS YOU CHOOSE TO READ KNOWING THEY ARE CONTROVERSIAL... MY BOOKS ARE NOT FOR YOU! Thanks.

RATING: R

WARNINGS: Some sexuality in the prologue (masturbation and implied, non-explicit slash) and various non-descrip het sexual encounters elsewhere, general wartime violence as per usual.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the A-Team. Also, many of these stories from Vietnam are based on real events, people, and places that I uncovered while talking to vets and researching the war. So some of these stories are real testimonies from real people, changed as necessary to fit the A-Team.

SUMMARY: Trust, and love, are not attitudes that Face defaults to. Love is a concept all but foreign, and trust towards the team was not always implicit…

**PROLOGUE**

**Vietnam, 1967**

The cool water felt good on Templeton's overheated skin. With one hand gripping the support beam for the hastily constructed stall, he used the other to run the bar of soap over his body, tipping his face up into the trickle of water. He wanted a real shower. With privacy. Actual walls that wouldn't fall down if he leaned on them. Walls that didn't stop at mid-chest.

He shouldn't complain. At least there was water.

He scanned his surroundings – no one was around – then let his eyes slide closed as he ran his hand down, over his chest, his abs. Lower… God, it felt good. Even his _own _touch felt good. His own hands on his own body, like a lover's caress. He hadn't felt that in so long, he might have forgotten what it felt like except for that lingering voice in the back of his mind that begged for it, every day that he spent out here, miles from nowhere. He wanted a woman.

It wasn't quite as simple as the crude thought made it seem. As he considered the merits of his limited sexual conquests, it became more and more clear to him that sex itself – while certainly fun – wasn't what he wanted. He couldn't describe what he felt, what he craved, what led him to the arms of those girls – some less familiar than others. From his very first attempt at seduction, he'd been good at it. No surprise, really. On some basic level, all women young and old wanted the same things – to be appreciated, charmed, and occasionally pleaded with. He saw it as a child, with the nuns who cared for him, and he saw it as he grew. He gave them that. In return they gave him… something.

What he got out of it – what he wanted now – was both complicated and simple at the same time. It wasn't sex. It wasn't erotica, or foreplay, or orgasm. At the same time, it wasn't conversation, friendship, or closeness. It was at once both more and less than all of that. He didn't know what it was. But the smooth glide of his soap-slicked hands over his inner thigh was a damn good mimicry. The touch. The intimacy. The knowledge that someone else was with him and for him. That someone else cared.

Unfortunately, that was just the problem: no one did.

Three months in the hell hole that was camp A-255. Sergeant Templeton Peck had grown tired of routine. It wasn't boring; the nightly shellings and ever-present threat of attack made sure of that. But it was at once too familiar and not familiar enough. He wanted to go home, and he was counting down the days until that happened. What the hell had ever possessed him to want to join the Army in the first place? He'd gone through so much to get here, and now he just wanted to go home.

He sighed, and gave up his fight against the feelings of loneliness and despair – feelings that would only leave him even more unsatisfied than he already was. Acutely aware of his misery, but not resigned to it, he turned to face the camp to make sure that everyone stayed disinterested in him as he wrapped his hand tightly around his semi-hard shaft. It wasn't going to help and he knew it. He'd tried this before, and if anything it only made it worse. His own hand could not convey that feminine touch, and it just made him want it more. But this was all he had here, now, out in the middle of the god-forsaken jungle. It was the closest thing he had to whatever the hell it was he wanted. And he needed it badly…

He tipped his head back, let the water trickle through his hair and down his back. Had to make this fast. The water would run out, sooner or later. Then there would be no more showers until they could refill it, and God knew how long that would take. Once more quick glance around, and he let his eyes slide closed. He was anywhere but here, and the hand belonged to anyone but him. He was buried to the hilt in slick, warm wetness. The images danced across his mind, and his lips parted as his breathing deepened. Why on earth had he hesitated? This felt so good…

It didn't take long. Never did. He was seventeen, stressed, and too little privacy had long ago taught him to pretty much come on command. If someone walked up, he'd never finish. He only had until they arrived, and no telling when that would be. He made no sound except a staggered gasp for air as he felt his body crest and fall, tension slowly easing out of his muscles as he shuddered. He stroked a few more times, riding out the last few, lingering seconds of pleasure, then opened his eyes to look around again. No one. Good.

The guilt and loneliness washed over him in full force, bringing him crashing back down, and he sighed as he turned and rinsed off quickly. Then, grabbing the towel, he ran it roughly over his skin, tucked it around his waist, and grabbed his clothes on his way out of the stall. That guilt was a hard, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Like a rock. He hated it. Still unsatisfied by the brief climax, all too aware that the good feelings had worn off before he'd even left the stall, he felt more lonely and more needy now than he had before. He wanted to scream in frustration at the vicious cycle. Instead, he kept his head down and walked silently to the barracks.

"Feel better?" Devon asked as he walked through the door.

Tem looked up briefly as he shoved his clothes into his locker in no particular order. "No," he answered dryly. "Should I?"

Devon studied him curiously as he stripped the towel and lay down on his bunk, beneath the sheet with his back to his roommate.

"Oh, come on," Devon tried again. "It can't be that bad."

"I'll agree with you if we don't get shelled tonight," Tem said flatly, eyes closed. "I could use a good night's sleep."

"Good luck with that."

No answer. Devon frowned deeply. "What's the matter, Tem?"

A long hesitation was followed by a deep sigh, and the young sergeant turned onto his back, arms under his head as he stared up at the bunk above him. "I want to do something with this."

"With what?"

"The frustration. Anger. All of it…" He glared at the top bunk. "I hate just sitting here waiting to get blown up."

Devon chuckled. "Why don't you tell Rikland you wanna go out on patrol?"

"That's…" Tem sighed deeply, shook his head. It wouldn't help. He couldn't explain why, but he knew it all the same. He was restless, anxious, miserable. He couldn't think of anything – at least, not anything attainable – that would diminish it.

He shut his eyes as he very suddenly, very unexpectedly, felt a stinging in the backs of them. Furious at himself for even allowing the thought of breaking down to enter his mind, he forced the tears back before they overflowed. He was a _soldier_, damn it! Suck it the hell up!

"I want to go home."

Damn it! He'd been so focused on keeping the tears at bay, he wasn't watching his mouth. He clamped his jaw shut, despising himself for the moment of weakness. How the hell could he say something like that? How could he even think it? It wasn't even true; he wanted to be here. He'd worked hard to get here! He didn't want to leave! Did he?

"Miss your family?"

He heard movement, and opened his eyes again, but didn't look as Devon stepped closer, finally perching on the edge of Tem's bunk. The closeness seemed odd, but Tem didn't acknowledge it. "I don't have family," he finally answered, coldly.

"Everyone's got _some_ family."

"I'm an orphan. Raised in an orphanage."

Devon paused for a moment. "Girlfriend?"

Why did that cause his chest to tighten? "None who cares that I'm here."

He sighed deeply. That statement, while true, sounded strange. His life to date had been full of friends and girlfriends and easily-charmed caregivers, all of whom had been quick to offer validation and affection, care and concern… His training with the Army had been hell – learning to do without all of that. He'd pushed through it. They might not be with him, but it didn't mean that they didn't care. It didn't mean he'd been abandoned. And he'd formed new bonds, made friends of a different sort. Friendship was measured differently in the Army. But they'd pulled in close, pulled together, bonded and helped each other through.

It was different out here. For the first time in his life, Tem was truly afraid. And for the first time, he felt truly alone. There was nothing, no one, to ease that uncertainty away. Nobody to even care that he was feeling it. It was a different world out here. Men came in clean fatigues from stateside bases and left in body bags. Best not to get too attached, he'd heard. But how the hell were any of them supposed to get through it without that attachment, that support?

Tem shut his eyes again. "I envy you, you know that?" he finally whispered.

"Why?"

"Because it matters if you come back alive."

Devon hesitated for a long moment. Tem felt a hand on his arm, and opened his eyes to look up at the man sitting beside him, a concerned expression on his face. "It matters if you do, too."

Tem shook his head slightly. "Not really."

A soft, sympathetic smile – did he actually care? – and Devon's hand moved from his arm to the side of his face. Tem blinked in surprise, but didn't otherwise react. "It matters to me," Devon said quietly.

Tem stared at him, cautious and yet curious. Why say something like that? Why was he so close? But at the same time that he found himself questioning it, he also realized he was leaning into the hand at the side of his face. He pulled away abruptly, and Devon gave a knowing smile.

"It's okay," he whispered. "It doesn't mean anything."

Tem blinked, confused by the statement. But as the hand returned to the side of his face, fingers lightly stroking along his cheek, he didn't pull away again. This time, he followed the touch, watching the man carefully as he nuzzled gently against his hand. He didn't know why. It just felt right. And if it didn't mean anything…

"It's what you need, isn't it?" Devon said softly, moving his hand up to push the wet, blond hair back from Tem's forehead. "Human touch?"

Tem didn't answer, didn't know what to say. Devon smiled compassionately, and sighed as he looked away, pulling his hand back into his lap. "I was a lot like you, once."

Curious, Tem raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

Devon shrugged. "We've all been there, to some extent. But it's okay. It does get better."

Tem studied him carefully. He realized that his question hadn't been answered, and wondered if that meant the older sergeant _did _understand or that he didn't. "When?" Tem asked, prodding carefully. "Three months over here is a long time."

Devon chuckled. "Three months is nothing."

"Longer than a lot of guys _live_ when they come here."

A long silence answered him. Finally, Devon turned and met his gaze again. "It'll be okay, Tem. You'll get through it."

"Through what? I don't even know what 'it' is except that I just feel like I…"

He didn't finish. In the silence that followed, Devon leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Like you're alone in the dark, just waiting to die, wondering what the hell you're doing in Vietnam and why you wanted this?"

Tem sighed, frustrated, and looked away. "I just want… I want something familiar. Something to feel _good_."

"You know, when I first joined up… I was only seventeen."

"Thought you had to be eighteen," Tem mumbled, not looking up.

"Seventeen with parental consent and a high school diploma. I'd _just_ turned nineteen when I got accepted into Special Forces. I got in by a few days."

Tem hesitated. "I was –" _sixteen_ "– eighteen. A few weeks from turning –" _seventeen_ "- nineteen." He looked up and forced a smile. "They made a special exception. Because I did so well on the test."

"So how old are you now?"

Seventeen. "Nineteen. Until December."

Devon chuckled, and shook his head in disbelief. "Jesus, you really are just a kid."

"Uh huh. And it's comments like that that make me keep it under my hat."

Devon frowned. "I didn't mean it like that." He reached up, stroked the side of Tem's face gently. Why did that feel so damn good? "It's just that –"

"If I hadn't gone to Ft. Bragg, I would've been out here a long time ago," Tem interrupted, looking up again. "And hell, if all I'd done was basic…" He trailed off, lowered his eyes again. "I'd probably be dead by now."

Devon sighed. "Look, Tem. Voice of experience talking here. I've been there. And you can either deal with it, and try to _make _something feel good in this hell hole, or you can let it eat you alive."

"Something like what?" But even as he said it, he felt his eyes slide closed involuntarily as Devon's hand moved down – over the side of his face, his neck, his shoulder – rough calluses over soft skin. Fuck…

Devon smiled softly, sympathetically, as he watched the boy's response. "Whatever you can get."

Tem breathed deep, his chest rising and falling under the soft touch. "It's stupid, isn't it?" he breathed. The sound of his own voice, heavy with emotion, even at a whisper, caught him off guard. His eyes opened, and he stared up at Devon.

"What is?"

"It's just…" He sighed deeply. "I just want something that feels…"

"It's not stupid," Devon assured him quietly. The hand moved again to the side of his neck and slid back until Devon's fingers were in his hair. "Like I said, we've all been there."

Tem raised a brow as he felt the tension ease out of his shoulders. This felt very odd. But at the same time, he was surprised to find that it was not at all unwelcome. Curious at the intimacy, and who it was coming from, he opened his eyes and studied Devon.

"I uh… thought you had a wife."

Devon laughed, and Tem shrank back a little. Not the response he'd expected. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but that sure as hell wasn't it. He suddenly found himself trying to pull his foot out of his mouth.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply –"

"My wife and I are separated," Devon interrupted.

"Separated?" Tem asked, confused.

"Yes." Devon paused briefly, and smiled. "See, she's on that side of the ocean and I'm on this side. In this hell hole we call camp A-255. Where nothing's real unless you _make _it real. And nothing really means anything."

"Oh."

Tem felt his eyes slide closed involuntarily as the gentle caress roamed over his chest and his sides. He couldn't explain why it felt so good. But then, he couldn't explain half of what he felt anymore. He didn't even want to try. Slowly, Tem withdrew a hand from beneath his head and reached up. He watched Devon's eyes as he returned the touch, through the sweat-drenched T-shirt. He noticed the way that the older man leaned into it, a mirror of Tem's own response. Human touch. Comfort. Intimacy.

"If it doesn't mean anything," Tem whispered, staring up at him in confusion, "why do you do it?"

"Because." Gazes locked, Devon leaned down slowly, until Tem could feel the warmth of his breath as their cheeks touched. "It's the only goddamn thing that feels good."

Tem's eyes slid closed as he felt the hand slide down further, beneath the blankets, and wrap around his slowly-hardening shaft.


	2. Chapter One

**CHAPTER ONE**

**1969**

_March 21_

_Received a letter today from an old flame. It sort of surprised me, in all honesty. I hadn't heard anything from the States since I arrived here and that was… forever ago. Her whole letter was mostly about the protests going on over there. Guess she wanted to know how I felt about them. I certainly can't think of any other reason for her to write to me. She seemed particularly sympathetic to the horrors of the war. I wonder if she'd feel enlightened if I sent her a few pictures. More likely, they'd show up on picket signs outside of the NVA blood drives. Oh well. So much for old flames._

"Face!"

"Yeah?"

"Pack up, we're movin' out!"

_I'm beginning to seriously wonder if the communists are somehow behind what's going on in the States. They sure do know how to play this propaganda thing, at any rate. Whoever heard of a war where your own people held blood drives for the enemy?_

"Face, we're in the air in ten minutes, with or without you."

Face smiled at Hannibal, who was strapping his pack over his shoulders. "Gee, Colonel, you really mean it?"

The look that answered him was anything but patient. "Move it, Lieutenant."

Face smiled. He was still getting used to the title. But Hannibal sure did seem to like using it.

_Well, off to… a remote area of South Vietnam. Not that anyone particularly cares. Though I guess I'm kind of glad for that, in all honesty. _

A hand to the back of his head elicited a knee-jerk reaction. He almost broke Cruiser's wrist. "Faceman, let's go."

He released his grip on the other man's hand and gave him a wave. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming."

"You're gonna be hangin' off the skids if you don't get yer ass out there."

_In case this is my last entry, I want my body (if it's ever recovered) delivered to the bastard protestors in the States. They can burn it as a token of their appreciation._

_-Templeton Peck_

Face slapped the journal closed and threw it onto his bunk as he grabbed his gear and pushed his way out of the plywood and corrugated tin hootch. Juggling a CAR-15, his pack, and a vest loaded with grenades and charges and canisters of various sizes, he made his way quickly to the LZ and dropped the gear into the back of the chopper that was refueling hot, rotors still spinning

"Where the hell have you been?" He had to yell to be heard inside the cabin.

"Ash and trash, baby," Warrant Officer Rick Sanfree, called back with a grin. "An Lac, halfway to fuckin' Saigon. Why? Didja miss me?"

_Not in the least, flyboy._

Cruiser clapped Face's shoulder, and he glanced back. "You see the Captain's daughter on that base?" His hands waved an hourglass shape and Face rolled his eyes.

"Hey, you didn't have to wait for me," the pilot said. "There's ten other choppers sitting right there!"

"Yeah, we'd just put it on autopilot, huh?" Cruiser chuckled.

Sanfree laughed. Face's eyes rolled again as he sighed. He really wasn't in the mood…

"Face!"

Looking over his shoulder, Face saw Hannibal waving at him. He jumped down from the chopper and jogged over, away from the deafening sound of the blades. "Where are we going, Colonel?"

"Dac Seang. II Corps."

Face glanced around. "Where did Boston vanish to?"

"He went to grab food supplies," Hannibal answered. "I need you to find a few more Green Hornets while we're here."

Face frowned. "You think we're gonna need them?"

"I'd rather have them and not need them…"

"No problem." Face smirked at the challenge, slight though it may be. "You got a stopwatch? Time me."

Hannibal didn't answer as Face turned and trotted toward the medical center – a hastily constructed building with meager supplies. Few serious injuries were ever treated here; they were sent to larger bases. The most serious were sent to Japan or back to the States. The building itself was not impressive, nor the equipment, nor the treatment options. What made this medical center so unusual among those he'd visited were the round-eyed nurses who occasionally rotated in to teach modern medicine to the CIDG caretakers – midwives and medicine men who knew nothing of technological advancement.

Once such midwife greeted him just inside the door. "I help you?"

"Jessica Summers please?" He flashed the woman a smile, but she'd already turned away.

"Jessica! A man for you!"

"A man for me," a female voice repeated. "What else is new?"

The young blonde looked frazzled as she stepped around the curtain. "Face," she greeted. Her smile was polite, but there was no hint of any real joy at seeing him. "What is it this time?"

"This time?" he chuckled. "Maybe I was just coming in to see how you were doing today."

"Maybe," she granted. "But I doubt it." She took a few steps closer and crossed her arms over her chest delicately. "Surprise me."

He opened his mouth, realized it was a catch 22, and closed it again. He opted for just a smile and a shrug. She smirked. "I thought so."

"Hey, it's not like I wouldn't come here just to see how you were doing, you know," he said, following her as she turned away. "You're the one who's always making up excuses for why I can't take you out."

"Take me out?" she laughed. "Out where? Out of Vietnam?"

"There's restaurants in DaNang," he reminded with a smile. "It's only a half hour away by chopper. I'll probably have a day or two off when I come back from –"

"What do you need, Face?" she interrupted with a deep sigh.

"A couple of Green Hornets."

"I already gave those to Hannibal."

"Well, yeah, but –"

She turned, cutting him off mid-step. He almost ran right into her, he was following so close. "And I gave him the maximum number that I'm allowed to give him." She sighed deeply, tired. He leaned over her a little, bracing himself carefully on the shelving unit to his right. "What are you doing with these things, selling them?"

"If I was selling anything, it wouldn't be caffeine pills."

"You guys eat these things like candy. There's a reason why they're regulated."

"If the VC doesn't kill me, the caffeine will, is that it?" Face smirked.

She looked up at him, staring him in the eye. He could tell he'd won by that look on her face. She was too tired to argue. And besides that, she knew he was right. The dangers of too much caffeine paled in comparison to the dangers of being too tired to stay alert.

Still leaning over her, he held out his other hand, palm up. "Please?"

His best impression of a begging puppy made her sigh again, and she reached in her pocket for a small plastic bag filled with little green pills. He hid his smile. She'd known he would be coming for them and she'd known she would give them to him. This was just too damn easy. "Thanks," he smiled. "I owe you one."

He kissed her cheek and pushed himself up and away from her. "You owe me more than one," she reminded.

He grinned back at her. "I'll make good on it."

"Be careful, Face," she called after him as he turned and looked away. "All of you."

A two-fingered wave over his shoulder was the only answer he afforded her as he stepped out and jogged toward the chopper.

**Los Angeles, 1978**

"Want me to walk you in?"

"Nah, I'll be fine." Murdock gave a big yawn as Face pulled the 1971 Pontiac GTO to a stop in the parking lot of the VA hospital. "I think I'm gon' go sleep for a week or so."

Face could sympathize. Their last assignment, in Panama, had been exhausting for all of them. But it had been profitable, and that made it worth the effort. BA had managed a good long nap on the plane ride home – like it or not – and Hannibal had caught some shut eye as well. But Face was too wired to sleep and Murdock had to fly the plane. They'd kept each other company in the cockpit of the A36 Bonanza.

"Does that mean you don't want to come along if Hannibal decides he can't sit still after a day or two?" Face challenged as Murdock got out of the car.

Murdock looked back and smirked. He'd be ready to go again by morning. At least, he'd be a hell of a lot more ready than Face would. Murdock liked the adventure; Face was in desperate need of a few days off. Three cases in as many weeks had left him exhausted in every sense of the word. Hopefully, Hannibal had gotten the jazz all out of his system now and he could let them all recover for a few days.

Yeah, right.

Ever since they'd started this gig, they hadn't gone more than a few weeks without another case. They (and their unconventional problem solving techniques) were popular; business was plentiful. Hannibal had recon in his blood, and that hadn't gone away after the war. If Face was really honest, it was still in his blood, too. For him, that didn't equate to actually wanting – seeking, even – a way to get himself killed. But Hannibal simply couldn't live without the adrenaline.

For Face's part, he was along for the ride, wherever that road took him. His team was the closest thing he'd ever had to family, and like it or not, he knew he'd follow them to the ends of the earth on a whim. They shared a bond that was stronger than blood – a bond that no one else could ever understand. They'd killed for each other. Died for each other…

Face's thoughts were cut off abruptly by a pair of long, thin legs crossing the sidewalk in front of his car. Before he even saw the rest of the woman attached to them, she had his full attention. As his eyes moved up, he saw a lab coat and, above that, a vaguely familiar face. "Who is that?" he asked, thinking out loud.

"I dunno," Murdock replied, turning to look. "I think she's new. Never seen her before." He grinned. "I could find out."

"Nah, don't bother." Face was already stepping out of the car.

Murdock chuckled as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Later, Faceman," he called, walking backwards a few steps before he turned his back and started for the hospital entrance.

It only took Face a few steps to catch up to her. "Excuse me…"

His intent had been to ask if he knew her when she turned around, but he never had the chance. The instant she looked at him, her eyes widened in surprise. "Face?"

It was not the response he'd been expecting. Startled and confused, it took him a moment to place the voice, the face, and the name together. "Jessica," he greeted with his best smile. "Wow! I thought that was you. You look… great."

The woman in the lab coat blinked a few times and shook her head as if to clear it. Her eyes were wide with shock – and something else – as she laughed. It was a tight laugh, almost tense. It set off warning bells in Face's mind. She wasn't offering the expected response to a reunion of old friends. She was on her guard. There was something… unnatural about it.

"You look really good, too."

"So what are you doing in LA?" Face asked. Over her shoulder, he saw Murdock walk through the front doors of the VA and out of sight.

Jessica chuckled at the question. "I live here."

"Really?"

"Yeah." She shifted uneasily. "I just started work here a few days ago."

"At the VA?"

"Yeah." She eyed him warily. "So you um… live in LA?"

He nodded. "Always have. Well… almost always. I was in Vegas for a while." He smirked. "And the Army doesn't count."

"Right." She checked her watch, shifting her purse over her other shoulder. "Well, look, I'd love to stay and talk but I really have to go. I need to catch the bus and it won't wait."

"Why don't you let me drive you home?" Face offered.

"Oh, no, I couldn't – "

"Please." Face gestured toward his car. "I insist."

He gave her his best smile, and watched as the protest died on her lips. After a moment of hesitation, she smiled back. "Okay," she agreed. "Actually, that sounds wonderful. Are you sure it isn't any trouble?'

He noticed the way she hesitated when her eyes came to rest on the sporty car, but he only smiled as he opened the door for her. "Not at all."

She stared, feet firmly planted. "This is your car?"

He raised a brow. "You don't like it?" he challenged with a slight smirk.

"It's… nice."

It was very nice. It had cost him a fortune when he'd bought it, and was still worth every penny, years later. "Coming?" he urged, still holding the door.

She hesitated for a long moment, then stepped off the sidewalk and into the parking lot, slipping into the passenger seat. He closed the door, then walked to the other side of the car. A moment later, he turned over the ignition and pulled out of the parking space.

"So, uh," she hesitated as he turned slowly through the parking lot, avoiding the few pedestrians. "What were you doing here at the VA?"

"A friend of mine… lives here."

"At the hospital?"

"Yeah. In the psych ward."

She raised a brow. "A friend from the war? Who?"

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Was she serious? "How long did you say you've been in LA?"

"About five years. But this is only my third day at the hospital."

Murdock hadn't even been in the hospital since four days ago.

"What do you do here?" Face asked.

"I'm an orthopedic surgeon."

His eyes widened slightly. War nurse turned surgeon; it was quite a step up. "Really? Congratulations."

"Thank you," she replied coolly. "Turn left here."

It was twenty minutes of choppy conversation later that Face pulled up in the driveway of a nice house. It sort of surprised him; if she lived in a house like this, why was she riding the bus? He thought to ask, but he didn't think she'd answer. She was being just as guarded as he was. About the only thing he'd really found out was that she wasn't seeing anyone and that she didn't own a TV or read the paper. She hadn't even known he was alive, much less that he was wanted by the military police. He didn't feel it necessary to tell her.

"Listen," he said as he pulled the car to a stop and put it into park, glancing first at the house and then at her. "If you're not busy this weekend, I'd like to take you out to dinner sometime. Friday night, maybe?"

"Oh, I…" She was looking for an excuse. He could see it in her eyes. "I can't. I'm sorry."

"How about Saturday, then?"

"Really, I – "

"If you think," he cut her off, "that after finding you, ten years later, I'm just going to let you turn and walk away without so much as _one _dinner date, you don't know me very well."

She stared at him for a long moment, and he smiled. She wouldn't refuse that smile. She never had. "Alright," she relented. "But don't go getting any ideas, Face. Things are a lot different now than they used to be."

Face put up his hands in surrender. "I have no expectations. Just a nice dinner and a pleasant evening with an old friend. Who looks every bit as beautiful now as she did ten years ago."

Face's attention flickered to the window nearest the door as an older woman pulled the curtains aside and peeked out at them. He studied her for a moment and Jessica followed his gaze. "My mother," she explained. "We help each other out."

Face nodded. "I see." He turned to look at her again. "So what time should I pick you up?"

"Uh… well…" She hesitated. "Can we do it later in the evening? Like… eight? Or nine?"

"Eight sounds good. I'll be here."

He watched as she opened the door and stepped out of the car, then started up the drive toward the door. She turned to look over her shoulder halfway there, and he smiled as he gave her a quick wave. By the time she reached the door, the figure in the window was gone. Once Jessica disappeared inside, Face put the car in reverse.

Looking back, something caught his eye. It took him a minute to even figure out what it was. Something just seemed out of place. He paused. Three cars across the street, parallel parked along the curb. One of them was occupied.

He let his eyes linger for a moment, then shrugged off the feeling of uneasiness. There could be a hundred reasons why someone was in a parked car at the side of the road. The car wasn't hurting anything. Face made note of it, then finished pulling out of the driveway. But two blocks further, he still couldn't shake the feeling. It was a sixth sense, developed during the war when danger was imminent. He stopped in the middle of the empty street and turned back.

**1969**

"What's the matter, Lieutenant?"

A lot of things were "the matter". The bloody and mangled body of Specialist Five Steven Ulrich, that they had just lifted up through the trees to an extraction helicopter, for one. It was always hard to go after one of their own on Bright Light. It was even harder when he knew the man they were looking for was already dead. He'd probably been dead long before the air strike had gone down right on top of him. A simple miscommunication, and just not enough time for the string extraction. Too many NVA to even think he'd still be alive if they came back around for him again, and too many RPGs to try it.

Face hated it. But he would've made the same call. The man was gone; there had been no way to save him.

In any case, that wasn't the "matter" that was on his mind right now. "Just got a funny feeling," he answered Hannibal, shaking his head as he swung the machete at the bamboo that was obstructing their landing zone around a bomb crater from the strike the day before.

"What kind of funny feeling?" Hannibal sounded concerned.

Boston laughed nervously. "Oh no, you don't. You just keep chopping."

Face fell silent. But he couldn't shake the feeling. He glanced up at the two alert Montagnards on the high ground nearby, watching the surrounding area, covering them. Would it be enough? He couldn't help but feel threatened. He didn't have to know why to be able to trust it. He felt it simply because he did; that was enough.

He turned. Saw movement. Enemy. The reaction was instantaneous. He quick-fired the M-79 that had been hanging on his shoulder. The warning call from Hannibal was followed by open fire into the foliage.

The return fire came from three sides. At least two NVA platoons rose out of the jungle overgrowth, appearing out of nowhere. Instinct said to fall back as a heavily-armed human wave suddenly advanced on them. Face didn't fall back. He fired the grenade launcher until it was dry and then switched to his CAR-15. Four, five, six, seven dead as he fired into the crowd that was trying to overtake their high-ground position. The daring squad of near-suicidal soldiers fled.

Grenades. Face turned, plowed into Boston, pushing him down and as far from the blast as possible. The two Yards who were too busy firing to even notice were caught directly in the explosions. Face felt the sharp fragments slice and burn through his leg, and he grit his teeth hard as he pushed himself back up and turned to fire again. Hannibal had taken Cruiser and the other two Yards directly into the swarm.

Face grabbed the radio off of Boston's shoulder and shoved it into his hands. "Covey! Skyraiders! And get us the fuck outta here!"

Boston nodded quickly. Face turned, dropped down to his knees to make himself a smaller target, and started firing again at another wave coming from the right side.

Damn those instincts. And the fact that they did no good in the end.

**1978**

Face parked a block away and walked the rest of the way to the car. The dark tinted windows prevented him from seeing inside as he tapped on the driver's side, leaning one arm on top of the car. A moment later, the window rolled down smoothly. A middle-aged, slightly balding man stared up at him looking less than thrilled at the intrusion. "Can I help you?"

No woman in the car. That eliminated at least one reason for him to be sitting here. No uniform. No papers or recorders for note taking. No badge ready to flash at anyone who disturbed him. That eliminated a few more.

"Hey, I hope so. You know that girl over there?" Face gestured to the house that Jessica had disappeared into. "The one I just dropped off?"

The man's eyes shifted to the house, to Face, and back to the house again. He was caught off guard; Face had the upper hand. "Who the hell are you?"

"Oh, I'm just a friend right now but see, that's kind of where I was wondering if you could help me." Maybe he was just waiting for someone or had some equally innocent reason for being here. He wasn't the least bit intimidating, and wasn't trying to be. In spite of his surprise, there was no fear on his face. He wasn't afraid of Face, and Face wasn't afraid of him.

"See, I've been trying to find out if she's got a boyfriend and… well, maybe you could tell me." He glanced back at the house. "You ever see any guys come in or out of that house? The kind who might be, you know, romantically involved?"

The man didn't really know what to say to him. It was too bad, really, because an answer to that question could kill two birds with one stone. Was the silence because the guy had no answer or because he couldn't believe the nerve of a man who would walk up to his car and ask that? Face wasn't sure who the guy had expected him to be, but from the look on his face he'd had an explanation ready for anyone but a nosy potential boyfriend.

"I'm sorry," the man finally stammered. "I can't help you."

"Are you sure? I could uh," Face reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a bill, folding it so that the guy could easily see that it was a fifty, "make it worth your while."

"Get lost," the man answered, apparently offended by the offer. "I told you, I can't help you."

Face backed away as the window rolled up, raising his hands in surrender. "Alright, man, no problem. I was just wondering." The car started up and without waiting for Face to stand clear, he pulled away.

Face stared after him, amused. The fact that he hadn't taken the money stood out. It had been a perfectly valid, unassuming question. But it had been regarded with hostility, and the guy hadn't even tried to answer. Maybe he wasn't so innocent. Face made note of the license plate as the car drove off, tucking it into the back of his mind as he headed back to his own car.


	3. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

Jessica probably would have woken up the entire camp if Face hadn't clapped a hand over her mouth to remind her not to scream. Eyes closed, he kept his jaw locked tight, not making a sound as he felt the tension ease out of his body. He dropped his head, letting his forehead rest against her shoulder. Soaked with sweat and panting for breath, he shifted his weight so that he wouldn't fall on her when his arms gave out.

"You feel good?" he whispered against the side of her face.

"Mmm hmm…"

She raked her fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Shifting onto his side, he left his head on her chest, letting her calming touch soothe him. "So is this your idea of making good on all those favors you owe me?" she teased.

He let his eyes open lazily and he stroked his fingers up and down her side. "Nah, this was for me."

She laughed quietly. "Oh, okay."

"Mmm." He tipped his head up until their eyes met. "So how do you want me to settle my tab?"

She smiled faintly, pushing his sweaty hair away from his eyes. "I guess I could let you take me on a real date," she suggested.

He considered it for a moment as he sat up a little and reached for his cigarettes. He'd never done a "real date" in his life, though he'd thrown the idea around with her since he'd met her, a little over a week ago. "Got any R&R coming up?"

"R&R?" she laughed. "Like for more than a weekend? Not a chance."

"Well, where do you want to go?" He tipped his head down as he lit the end of the cigarette and passed it to her, then lit another for himself. It was so damn hot and sticky… They slid on each other everywhere their skin touched. She sat up beside him, pulling her T-shirt around her bent knees.

"I don't know."

He blew smoke into the air and set the pack on the side of the bed again. "Could do something in Saigon," he suggested.

"With all the whores?"

He chuckled. "What do you mean with all the whores?"

"That's all anybody talks about when they come back from Saigon." She paused to drag on her cigarette. "You know how many guys catch the clap over there?"

"I can imagine."

"I get to treat all of them when they come back. It's pathetic."

He smiled, but didn't answer. He'd been fortunate that he was one of the minority to escape the clap so far. Of course, he was a little more choosy than most about which whores he frequented.

"Besides," she continued quietly, reaching for the plastic ashtray on the floor. She very nearly fell over backwards, and he caught her arm to steady her as she pulled herself back up and set the tray on the bed. "There's nothing to see in Saigon that I haven't already seen. Or anything I'd care to see again."

"I could take you to Hawaii, but that takes a few days off at least."

She was quiet for a moment, considering it. He tipped his head back, resting it on the cement wall behind him. He was relaxed, and it was a good feeling. "How long do you have left, Face?"

The question startled him back to awareness, and he took a hit off the cigarette before answering. "I'm on voluntary indefinite status."

She didn't answer, and he studied her quietly.

"Why?" he asked. "How short are you?"

"Three months."

"Are you going home?"

She sighed deeply, her shoulders rising and falling. "I don't know," she admitted, pausing for a long drag. "I've got to get out of Vietnam, Face. It's too depressing."

He chuckled. He didn't realize until after he'd done it that she'd been completely serious. She was frowning at him, a hurt look in her eyes. "Why are you laughing?"

He glanced away. "Sorry," he said sincerely.

"Doesn't it depress you?"

"I don't have time to get depressed about it. I'm either out there killing the bastards or laying down recovering from it." He smirked. "And waiting for the next opportunity."

"I'll never understand you," she sighed. He could hear the emotional detachment in her tone. "All of you. Men turn into such animals when you give them a gun."

He probably should have been offended by that, but he wasn't. He'd seen an awful lot of animals in 'Nam. Many of them he'd called teammates. On more than one occasion, there had been one staring back at him in the mirror. "Kill or be killed, baby," he answered offhandedly. "Gotta be able to handle the sight of blood either way."

"It's not the blood that bothers me," she mumbled. "It's the inhumanity."

He didn't reply. His thoughts were wandering off to Hawaii, to a week of R&R he'd never see for a date with a woman he wouldn't even remember once she went home in a few months. So much for a real date.

**1978**

Jessica was under-dressed in sandals and a white sundress with little flowers on the skirt. Face had second thoughts about the restaurant before they ever walked in the door. They were going to stand out. But it hadn't been easy to get the reservations to begin with, and he didn't want to lose them. So he pulled to a stop in front of the door, and handed his keys to the valet driver. Jessica's eyes were a little wider than normal as he walked around to the passenger side and slid an arm around her waist, guiding her to the door.

"Something wrong?" he asked, noting her hesitation.

She shook her head quickly, as if snapping out of a trance, and forced a smile. "No," she assured him. "No, it's… fine."

"You said once that you wanted me to take you on a real date. This is about as real as it gets."

She laughed quietly and he led her inside, then up a few steps into the restaurant. They were seated immediately, near the front window. Jessica's eyes never stayed in one place for more than a second or two, even when the waiter handed her an open menu. Face watched her carefully as he handled the wine order and pleasantries with the waiter. Only once he'd left did Face address her again.

"This restaurant has some of the best food I've ever tasted," he offered, watching as her eyes flickered to him again. A forced smile crossed her face. Why was she so damned uncomfortable?

A half hour and a glass and a half of wine later, she still wasn't relaxed. The typical conversation starters had all led nowhere fast, and he was beginning to think this was a bad idea when she suddenly made an effort. "So are you still in the Army?"

He blinked, caught off guard by the question. Did she live in a box? "Uh, no," he answered with a smile. "No, I left… six years ago. Back in '72."

"Were you in Vietnam that whole time?" she asked, casting a glance across the table.

"Pretty much. We had to rotate back to the States every so often, per regulation. But other than that…"

"What made you quit?" Her question seemed as innocent as it was naïve. "You were a lieutenant. And on voluntary indefinite status. I figured you for a lifer."

He stared. "Ah, well, I uh… decided the military just wasn't for me, I guess." He let out a sigh of relief as the waiter interrupted them with their food, giving him time to regroup his thoughts.

A few moments later, they were alone again and she picked up right where she'd left off. "You keep in touch with your old team?" she asked.

He was more prepared now. "You might say that."

"Cruiser?"

He choked. How did she manage to ask the very last questions he was expecting? "No, actually… I haven't talked to Cruiser in a long time."

"I'm surprised." She glanced across the table, studying Face carefully. "You two seemed pretty close back then."

Face shifted uncomfortably, and offered a shrug.

"What happened?"

He looked up, meeting her eyes. He held them for a long moment. "Things change," he said quietly. "So do people."

She shrugged off his serious tone. "You're right. It seems so long ago."

"It was another life," he agreed, searching for a change of conversation. "One that I would just as soon forget about."

She blinked, startled. "Forget about?"

He smiled, his best attempt at fooling her into thinking he was perfectly at ease. He wasn't sure whether or not he succeeded. "Not exactly my fondest memories."

"Really?" The challenge in her tone made him stop short, and look across at her again.

Okay, so maybe that hadn't come out quite right. "You know I don't mean you," he reassured her with a smile. "I mean the war in general."

Her eyes lowered as she picked at her food. "I wouldn't have thought you the type to live with regrets."

"I didn't say I regret it," Face corrected, sipping his wine. He regarded her over top of the glass. "I said I don't like to think about it."

"Why is that?" she challenged. "If not regret…"

"Because people change." He smiled, raising his glass in a gesture for a toast that she did not return. Instead, she looked away.

Silence.

"Look, um…"

Face was relieved to hear Jessica break the silence until he saw that she was setting her fork down, folding her hands over her the meal she'd barely touched. She cleared her throat as she lowered her eyes away.

"I know I'm supposed to be really flattered that you would take me here and spend all this money on me but…"

He watched her as he took a sip of his wine, then set it down carefully and folded his arms on the table in front of him, pushing his own - full - plate back a little. "But what?" he asked calmly. He was neither surprised nor offended. Her non-verbal cues had been screaming her discomfort since the moment they'd pulled up. He was glad to finally address the elephant on the table.

She took a deep breath. "I'm just not interested in this kind of a relationship right now." She looked up, her gaze locking hard on his. "Not with you."

The last little hook at the end caught him off guard, and he blinked in surprise. It seemed almost… accusatory. Immediately and instinctively, he ran back through his memories, searching for any indication that he'd wronged her in the past. He came up empty. Tipping his head a little, he gave her his full attention.

"Alright, I'm curious," he admitted, studying her with a slight, subtle smile. "What do you mean by that?"

She sighed. "I mean that I'm really not comfortable with you spending this kind of money on me when there's nothing in it for you."

He raised a brow. "Who said I was looking to get anything out of it?" He couldn't help but feel a little defensive. It wasn't like he'd been pushy. He'd treated her to a nice dinner; was that so wrong?

"I'm sorry," she apologized, sensing his defensiveness. "I don't mean to sound like I'm ungrateful."

"Not ungrateful," he corrected. "But maybe a bit too suspicious."

"It's just that you're a very different man than I remember," she rushed, looking away. "And if I'd known that, I never would've agreed to this."

"People change." It was the third time in the same conversation he'd said that. He was beginning to sense a theme here.

"Well," she forced a smile, "you make a very nice 'changed man'. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth and never did a hard day's work in your life. And that's quite some change."

"It's not a bad change," he pointed out.

"I didn't say it was bad. Just that I don't find it the least bit attractive." She smiled politely as she set her napkin on the table. "No one would ever mistake you for a soldier, Templeton. Congratulations on that. But I'm still not interested."

He was stunned by her biting words, even if her tone was sweet. What the hell did she mean by that? He didn't know whether to be angry, or hurt, or whether he even cared at all. Of course no one would mistake him for a soldier. Over the years, he'd gone out of his way to make sure of it.

He had nothing to say as she stood up, setting her napkin aside. But a few steps into her retreat, he suddenly rose to his feet. "Wait," he called after her.

She didn't stop.

Fumbling for his wallet in his unanticipated haste to get out of the restaurant, he threw more than enough cash on the table to cover the meal and started after her, skirting around the tables until he reached the door and thanking the host for the wonderful service along the way. He found her heading for a pay phone, he suspected to call a cab.

"Wait," he said again, stepping in front of her. "What do you mean by that?"

"By what?" she asked, not stopping.

"By… _all _of that. Did I -" He realized he was being ignored and grabbed her shoulder, turning her to face him. "Did I do something I need to apologize for? Because I think I missed something here." Defensive or not, he was still sincere. He was sincerely confused.

Jessica sighed, and closed her eyes. A moment later, she hid her face in her hand. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She dropped her hand and looked him in the eye, composing herself. "You're right. People change."

"That doesn't mean that all changes have to be for the worse."

"Well, the changes in my life haven't all been for the better."

"Anyone could say that. It's part of life." He studied her carefully, suspiciously. What was she thinking? She was difficult to read. "What's the matter with you? If you didn't want to come, why did you?"

"Because you wouldn't take no for an answer!"

He stared.

She sighed deeply. "I was just looking for dinner with an old friend. But this isn't the kind of dinner I had in mind, and you don't much resemble my old friend. No offense."

"None taken," he replied quickly. "But you couldn't have honestly expected me to act the way that I did in the middle of a war."

She looked away, hugging her arms over her chest. "No, and to be honest, I'm _really _glad you don't. But even so. I don't know how many ways to tell you that I am just not interested."

He studied her, thinking fast, taking a minute to form a response rather than just allowing his thoughts to tumble out of his mouth. "Look, Jess…" He sighed, shaking his head. "Dinner with an old friend is all this was supposed to be. It's all it is, as far as I'm concerned."

"Old friends don't go for dinner to restaurants where they don't list prices on the menu."

"Well _this _friend does," he corrected, his voice firm. "Money isn't my problem. It never even crossed my mind that it would be yours, _doctor_."

She studied him for a moment, and he didn't flinch under her scrutiny. For once, he was being completely sincere. He'd talked her into bed before and he had no doubt that he could do it again. But he really, truly hadn't been trying.

"All I've been trying to do all night is hold a decent conversation," he continued. "And you don't want any part of it. If you're so convinced of my ulterior motives, why did you even agree to come?"

She looked away, lowering her head. "I'm sorry," she apologized again. "It's this place. It just… it caught me off guard." Her eyes were darting nervously. She was so uncomfortable… Why was she regarding him as such a threat? "I wasn't expecting champagne and money to be flowing. I just wanted to go someplace comfortable. Someplace, maybe, where we could talk."

"Alright." Thank God, at least he knew what she wanted now. "So let's start over. Where do you want to go?" He was already gesturing to the valet to bring his car. "You tell me."

She sighed deeply, and finally forced a smile up at him. "Okay."


	4. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

Face couldn't believe how much money he'd spent tonight just to wind up eating lukewarm pizza on the hood of the Pontiac. Looking out at the empty beach as the sun set, he wasn't disappointed with the view, only with the heat of a summer night that was a little too warm for his liking.

"So did you ever marry?" Jessica asked, taking a swig of beer from the bottle resting between her fingers.

Face laughed. "No. You?"

"No." She sighed deeply with that answer. "I hardly have time for friends, much less a real relationship."

He glanced sideways at her. He had one foot on the bumper, one on the ground, leaning carefully on the car so as not to scratch the paint. He would've preferred the benches that had been set up for just such an occasion, but she hadn't asked before sitting on his hood.

"What keeps you so busy?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Work. And I just finished school. Finally." She sighed and took another bite of pizza before tossing the crust to a few seagulls who had gathered in the parking lot. "Now I get to work even more so that I can start paying off school loans."

He chuckled. "Vicious cycle."

"No kidding."

The sun had just dipped below the horizon and the beach in front of them was pretty much empty except for a few stragglers and the seagulls. Face was really wishing for that two hundred dollar bottle of wine he'd left on the table. It might make the five dollar pizza easier to choke down. He glanced once more at the box, decided he was done, and tossed the rest of what was in his hand to the begging seagulls.

"You want to walk?" he offered. It really had turned out to be a nice night – if a little too warm - and the salty breeze felt good on his face. He could stand a short walk down the path that ran along the beach.

She smiled and slid off the car. He almost winced before reminding himself that there were no clasps, zippers, or anything else sharp on that dress that could scratch the car's paint. He tossed the pizza box and the few remaining slices in the garbage and took off his coat and tie, draping them both in the driver's seat of the car. Then he offered her an arm. She slipped her hand through without hesitation.

"You should've heard my mother," she started quietly as they walked slowly down the paved path. "When I told her I was going out tonight."

"Oh?"

Jessica sighed. "She's been trying so hard to get me to date again."

Face studied her curiously. "Again, since…?"

She shrugged, and didn't answer. It was a few more steps before she spoke again. "I went out a few times about a year ago." Her frown was deep as she shook her head. "But that didn't go well. I think it was more disappointing to Momma than it was to me. She had really high hopes. Higher than mine, actually."

"Hopes of what?"

"Marrying me off."

He laughed. "Should I be afraid?" he asked, only half-joking.

"_Her _plans are not _my _plans," she clarified. "She just… you know. I shouldn't be this old and not married."

"Lots of women are getting married later."

"Yeah, but tell _her _that." She shook her head. "She's just worried that I'll end up old and alone."

Face studied her for a long moment as they walked. "Are you worried?"

She smiled faintly, and shook her head. "Not at all. I'm just not ready. Simple as that." She lowered her eyes, watching her feet as she stepped carefully and slowly on the high heeled sandals. "I still feel like I need time to figure out who _I _am," she continued quietly. "I don't want to complicate that even more by throwing a guy in there."

He glanced at her curiously. "Why? Did you forget?"

"Forget what?"

"Who you are?"

She laughed. "Oh, you're one to talk."

He smiled back, knowingly. "Again, just asking."

She hesitated a long moment. "I don't know," she answered quietly. "There's something inside of me that doesn't feel like… who I am. If that makes sense."

Face considered it for a moment, trying to make sense of it. "Something you want there? Or something you don't?"

Her brow furrowed as she considered that. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Just what I said. Are you trying to figure out what it is so that you can get rid of it or make everything else match it?"

She looked at him and frowned, not answering for a long moment. "I don't know," she admitted. "I sure as hell don't want to be someone I'm not." She was quiet for a few steps, considering. "I guess I'll have to know what it is first. Whether or not it's really me."

"When you find out, what if it's not what you're looking for?"

She shrugged. "I guess I'll have to deal with it. I'd still rather know. Who I am, what I feel, what I'm capable of." She smiled up at him. "What's real in my life."

Face let his smile fall as he studied her for a long moment. Then he looked away, out over the water. "You show me a person who knows everything there is to know about himself – everything he is, everything he feels, everything he's capable of…" His eyes darkened as he finished quietly, glancing back toward her. "And I'll show you a person who doesn't go a single day without thinking about putting a bullet in his brain."

**1969**

Face took a slow, deep breath, opened his eyes, and turned his head. It was 1300 hours, right in the middle of "Pok Time," and nothing should have been moving. The mid-day siesta was a mandatory rest in the field. The NVA honored it, and while they were soundlessly lying back to rest, they would be aware of any movement in their surrounding area. Any team that moved was instantly recognized as Americans. Moving around during "Pok Time" was a good way to get shot.

Hannibal made a sound – a click of tongue against teeth. It was quiet, barely noticeable. But Face noticed. So Hannibal had felt it too…

Something was off.

Face breathed deep, smelling the air, tasting it. His eyes scanned the trees for movement, turning his head ever-so-slowly. But there was nothing. Only still, thick, heat-soaked midday air.

Hannibal rose slowly. Face looked to him for an order before he moved. It came only a second later, a gesture in the direction that Hannibal wanted him to go. The order was repeated to all of them, in pairs, and they split up from the tree in four directions, sweeping the perimeter.

Face moved soundlessly, each step rehearsed before he took it. Fifty feet from their resting place, a click from behind him suddenly made him stop. Instantly, he turned both his head and the muzzle of his gun to the Yard pacing with him. Without moving, the man directed Face's attention with a glance.

Face saw what he was looking for right away. Standing between two trees at no more than twenty yards, a lone soldier was scanning the trees. Face lowered slowly, into the cover of the bushes, studying the man carefully. His hair hadn't been cut in some time – poorly disciplined unit. He held his weapon steady and close – he was hard-core infantry. Loaded rucksack – he wasn't from a nearby base. AK alert, at port arms – he was hunting. Where the hell was the rest of his team?

Gun ready, Face stayed down – just watching as the man came closer. He hadn't seen them. That much was evident by the way he walked. He was scanning everywhere, looking for anything that moved. Definitely hunting. The rest of his unit was probably hunting too. Hunting Americans. Face's eyes narrowed into slits as the enemy took one careful step after another.

As he came closer, Face pressed lower into the brush. There would never be just one of them. His gun was trained on the man's forehead, but if he pulled the trigger, it would bring the others running to his aid. Then their quiet little recon mission would turn into a run through the jungle. It was best not to make a sound. Just let him pass, then get back to the rest of the team and move on to a safer location.

But as the man came closer, it was clear that he was going to step right on them. Face could move – the Yard lying beside him was already considering it. But at this distance, the movement wouldn't escape the enemy's notice. They could either stay quiet and be found, run and be shot, or take this guy out and hope for the best.

Face exchanged glances and hand signals with the man beside him. An answering nod, and the Yard steadied his gun, aiming carefully. Very slowly, Face released his grip on the CAR-15 pressed up against him, ducked his head out of the shoulder strap, and set it beside him. Inch by inch, his hand slid down his side to the knife tucked into his web gear.

Breathe. In. Out. Face watched the man's eyes. He wasn't close enough yet. Had to be quick. Had to be perfect. If he fired a single shot, they would have to run. Heart beating in his ears. He could feel it quicken, racing. Adrenaline pouring into his veins. Sweaty grip on the knife. He twisted his fingers around it. Breathe. In. Out. Ten feet. Five feet.

Face moved.

Wrist first – disable the finger that held the trigger. Throat next. No shot was fired. Face followed him down, into the overgrown foliage as he gurgled an attempted cry for help into Face's hand. Hot blood – sticky and thick. Face pushed the man's head back as he hit the ground, and cut a second time – deeper. It was over in seconds, and Face closed his eyes for a moment as he smelled the blood and felt it seep between his fingers, lubricating his grip on the knife. His hand remained steady, never shaking as he let the adrenaline run its course, then ease away.

Breathe. In. Out.

**1978**

Face realized Jessica was talking, but he hadn't heard a word for the last several sentences. He shook his head briefly, to clear it, and glanced up at her. She was kicking her feet in the water as he watched from his spot in the sand, safely out of the water's reach. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I said you're very good at that."

"Good at what?" What had they been talking about?

"Turning the conversation back on me." And why was it so damn hard to concentrate?

He focused his attention on her as she kicked her foot a little, splashing in the saltwater. She looked like a little girl, sandals in her hand and past her ankles in the water. She glanced at him. "You haven't told me a thing about what _your _life has been like since the war."

He shrugged, hands folded and draped over his bent knees. "What's to tell?"

"How about what you do for a living," she suggested.

"Well I have... diverse investments." He sat up, crossing his legs in front of him and placing his hands in his lap. "I own pieces of various businesses all over the states. Hotels, taxicab companies, manufacturers of all kinds of products. Profit sharing with a nice return." That wasn't a lie.

"So you live off of your investments?"

"I do other jobs on the side. Modeling photography, for instance." He grinned. "But that's just for fun."

She laughed. "I'll bet it is."

He sighed wistfully. "Yeah, my life is… pretty boring."

"Do you ever miss it?"

"Miss what?"

She shrugged. The sun had long ago settled below the horizon. He could barely see her. Luckily, it was a full moon and the lights from the path behind them cast a slight glow all the way to the water's edge. "The adrenaline. Excitement." She looked up at him. "You never told me why you left the Army."

That was his cue to look at his watch. "You know, it's really getting late. I should probably get you home before your mother starts to worry."

She laughed as he stood to his feet, brushing himself off. "Damn, you are smooth, aren't you?"

He raised a brow. "What do you mean?" he asked innocently.  
She stepped out of the water and walked right up to him. To his surprise, she draped her arms around his shoulders, holding her shoes behind his head. Instinctively, he held her waist. "What's the matter, Peck?" She grinned. "Does that history just not go with your playboy image?"

"Not at all, as a matter of fact," he answered, eyeing her carefully. She was teasing, but he didn't know why. And he wasn't falling for it. Not this time. Not with her. She was too suspicious and untrusting of him to be playing this game without a motive, and he didn't know what the motive was.

"Too bad. He was much more interesting."

She pulled away and he let her go. "How so?" he asked, following a half step behind as she started slowly down the beach, walking right along the water's edge. Damn, he was going to get sand in his shoes.

She turned and walked backwards as she gestured at him. "This guy's afraid to even get his feet wet in the ocean."

"This is a seven hundred dollar suit," he explained, trying to pace his steps to find the rocks.

"Uh huh." She stepped a little further into the water. "How much am I worth?"

He didn't let her see that he was caught off guard by that question. He just said the first thing that came to mind, letting well-formed instincts take over. "I didn't know you were for sale." He smiled confidently, looking up at her.

"How about lease with option to buy," she corrected.

He stopped walking and tipped his head as he watched her, considering the sudden change in her tactics. All night, she'd been pushing him away. Now she was playing coy. Cautious of every word, he played along. "What kind of price range are we talking?"

She laughed loudly. "He who takes me for a five hundred dollar dinner wants to haggle over pricing?"

"I wasn't trying to buy you with dinner. I'm not quite that shallow."

"You still haven't answered my question."

"And you haven't answered mine."

She was stepping back, deeper into the water. She was up to her knees now, and the bottom of her dress was getting wet with every wave that washed past her.

"You know there's signs posted against swimming here at night," he reminded her.

"And you have to ask why I find you so much less interesting now?" She chuckled. "Now that you obey all the rules?"

"Not _all_ the rules. But we hashed out our rules of engagement somewhere between a very nice restaurant and a cheap pizza place. And those, I respect."

She crossed her arms over her chest as she smiled at him. "Since when?"

_People change…_

"I really should get you home."

She smiled, and splashed out of the water with high, careful steps. As she passed him, she stopped to exchange glances. "I rest my case," she said quietly.

He turned to watch her walk back up to the paved path, and waited until she'd gotten there before he finally followed.


	5. Chapter Four

**CHAPTER FOUR**

That car was back. This time, it drove off as soon as he pulled into the driveway. He suddenly remembered that he still had to check the license plate. "Thank you, Templeton," Jessica said quietly as he put the car in park. "I had a nice time."

She hadn't really had a nice time. She hadn't said a word all the way home. This had been one of the most awkward dates of his life. He wasn't sure if he wanted to ask to see her again or peel out of the driveway as fast as he could. Perhaps equally confusing, he wasn't sure which she wanted him to do.

"So did I," he lied. He hadn't exactly had a nice time, either. The memories she conjured up were better off left dead and buried. After all, he'd killed them for a reason.

She stepped out of the car, still carrying her shoes, and gave a polite smile. "Good-bye."

The finality in her voice made it clear that if he didn't make a move now, he probably wouldn't ever have another chance. And she wasn't giving him time to think about it. She'd already turned away. "Jess…"

She paused and looked back over her shoulder. But what was he supposed to say? Thank you? Have a nice life? He didn't come up with words in time, and she continued to the porch. As she disappeared, closing the front door behind her, he put his head on the steering wheel. What a night. He didn't want to do anything like that again for a long while. The awkward silences and tense boundaries. Being openly and blatantly compared to a younger version of himself. That part was particularly uncomfortable given that he had, in fact, gone to great lengths to separate himself from that past. He didn't _want _to associate the two.

He glanced at his watch. It was still early. He could think of a few places to spend the rest of the evening. None of them seemed particularly appealing at the moment. Maybe it would be best to just head back home. He needed a few good hours of sleep anyways after an evening like this.

He pulled out of the driveway, but stopped as the streetlights glimmered off of something on the floor in the passenger seat. His eyes lingered there for a moment and he groaned internally. She'd left her purse. Damn it, that meant this nightmare date wasn't over yet. Maybe he could just leave it on the porch…

He drove back up into the driveway and took the keys with him as he stepped out of the car, carrying her purse to the door. Even in such a nice area, he knew better than to leave a purse on the front porch. Maybe he'd get lucky and her mother would answer. All he really had to do was hand over the purse and run. He repeated that over and over in his head as he rang the doorbell.

"I'll get it!" A child's voice. Face stood a little straighter. Child?

"James, no!" But the door was already opening. "How many times do I have to tell you that –"

Face didn't hear the rest. The door cracked open, and suddenly, he was staring into a familiar set of eyes. It was like looking at a living photograph of himself twenty years ago.

Holy fucking hell.

"Hi," the boy greeted with an equally familiar smile. "Are you mom's boyfriend?"

"James, step back." The boy ducked under a middle-aged, heavyset woman's arm and into the room. "Can I help you?"

Face stared at the woman. There were no words coming to his mouth. Child? Mom? He struggled for coherent thought, and held up the purse, dumbfounded. "Uh…"

Suddenly, the woman smiled broadly. "Oh! Thank you!" She was a little too enthusiastic about seeing him in the doorway. He was on guard immediately. "Please, come in! Come in!"

"Oh, uh, no," he laughed. "No, I'd better not." He was prepared to put both hands and both feet on the doorframe to brace himself against any attempt to get him into this house.

"Oh, just for a minute," the woman smiled, grabbing hold of his arm. Her grip was somehow more effective than a well-aimed attack. He found himself stumbling into the house, off balance. Then the door was closing behind him. He was trapped. "Would you care for some tea? I just made cookies."

"No, uh…" His eyes were scanning for that boy. Like a passer-by at a car wreck, he couldn't help the morbid curiosity. Had he really seen what he thought he saw? "No, I can't."

The boy peeked from around the corner, much further away than the first time he'd seen him. "Momma, can I have another one?"

"One more," the unfamiliar woman answered. "Then it's bedtime."

"He's uh … your son?" Face asked, hopeful.

"Oh, no," she laughed. "My grandson." His heart sank deeper. "Everybody calls me Momma. Every kid on the whole block calls me Momma. Their mother is a 'mom' but I'll always be Momma."

He opened his mouth – to question, to protest, or maybe just to gape at her; he wasn't sure. If that boy wasn't hers, it meant that he was Jessica's. But before Face had a chance to figure out his next words, footsteps on the stairs caught his attention.

"Momma, did you take the towels out of the –" Jessica stopped abruptly on the steps as she saw him.

"Yes, I washed all the towels in the bathroom, dear," Momma answered. "You'll have to get yourself a clean one."

"Templeton, uh…" Clearly, from the look on her face, she hadn't left her purse on purpose. She was as shocked and horrified to see him as he was to be there. "What uh…? What are you doing here?"

"You… um…"

"You left your purse, dear," Momma said, taking the purse and walking the few steps to where Jessica stood on the steps. "Now, I just made some fresh cookies. Why don't you two sit down and –"

"No!" The protest was simultaneous from both of them.

Face blinked a few times as he fumbled for an excuse. "I… have to go to work tomorrow," he stammered. It was the first thing that came to mind. "I need to get some sleep."

"And I uh… have a surgery in the morning," Jessica added. "Seven a.m., bright and early."

Momma put her hands on her hips. "Jessica, tomorrow is Sunday. You have no such surgery."

"Oh, but… Sunday… I have to get the kids to bed because we have church in the –"

"I'll put the kids to bed," Momma interrupted. "You just get your pretty self down here and sit."

"No, I… really need to go," Face protested, backing towards the door. "Really." He locked eyes with the woman and forced a smile. Those powers of persuasion didn't work as well when he couldn't think straight. "Some other time."

"Oh, what a great idea!"

Damn it! Why did he say that?

"How about dinner tomorrow?"

"No, Momma, really…" Jessica protested.

"Oh, please, we'd love to have you." Jessica's mother was practically hanging on his arm by now. "I'm making chicken. You'll love it. It looks like it's been a while since you had a good home cooked meal." She jabbed at his ribs for good measure.

"Uh…" He looked to Jessica for help, but she'd run out of protests, too.

"Good, then it's settled! How does three o'clock sound?"

Shit.

**1969**

Face and Cruiser had made a stop at SOG's new Saigon headquarters – a building on Rue Pasteur that had been a hotel not long ago. There, they'd been warned about "that damned patch" – the one that Major General Jeff Sandgone had forbidden SOG men to wear in Saigon. The design had been scribbled on a napkin in a bar somewhere by a few SOG soldiers on stand-down. It had since made its way onto everything from uniforms to T-shirts. A Green Beret skull surrounded by USAF wings and a Navy/Marine anchor, it was clearly not a "Studies and Observation" patch. Sandgone had long been complaining to Westman – and anyone else who would listen – that it compromised the whole operation.

The SOG men wore it anyways.

They didn't wear it in Saigon, however, at the risk of a court martial. Reluctant to bow to the whims of a man – even a senior officer - they hardly knew, Face and Cruiser instead bowed to the military court, and exchanged their fatigues for sterile uniforms. But in keeping with true, stubborn rebellion, they kept the Green Berets and ditched the dog tags – which they hardly wore anyways in the field. It seemed ironic, after all, that they would never need to be identified if they went down over enemy territory, but the dog tags were mandatory in a relatively friendly atmosphere.

The bar was loud. Filled with drunken soldiers and sailors and about twice as many scantily-clad women, it almost rivaled the bars in Bangkok for being loud and raunchy. Face slid to the bar, gestured to the bartender for two beers, and leaned forward, putting his head in his hands as Cruiser stepped up beside him.

"Vodka tonic," Cruiser ordered absently to the Vietnamese bartender.

While Cruiser leaned his back on the bar and surveyed the room openly, Face was much more subtle. There was little threat here.

Face took the beer that the bartender slid to him - surprised by the speed. After paying, he sighed deeply and reached for his cigarettes, sitting back a little. Cruiser eyed him as he sipped his drink. Face was _not _the picture of rest and relaxation tonight, by any stretch of the imagination. Finishing his drink in a few gulps, Cruiser ordered another and wasn't surprised when the barkeep just set down two bottles in front of him.

"What are you thinking Face?"

Face lit his cigarette, tipped his head way back, and blew a cloud of smoke up into the air. "Thinkin' how much I don't feel like bein' here right now." He shot a brief glare at Cruiser, but it wasn't heartfelt. "How the hell do I let you talk me into this shit?"

Cruiser laughed dismissively. "You enjoy this 'shit'."

"'Enjoy' might be pushing it," Face said before taking a long drink.

"Whatever, LT." Cruiser poured the vodka straight and threw it back, then filled again as he went back to perusing the crowd.

Face watched him out of the corner of his eye and sighed. Cruiser had that look. Face could either drink fast and join in the fun... or stay too-sober and get dragged through it whether he enjoyed it or not. He finished his beer in a few long gulps, and took another drag on his cigarette before he turned and put his back to the bar, joining Cruiser's survey.

"Who d'you want?"

Face sighed, and shook his head. "Not interested, Cruiser." Looking over his shoulder, he caught the bartender's eye and held up his finger to request another beer. "Not tonight. You go right ahead."

"Your loss, man." Cruiser poured himself another shot. "You aren't going to sit here like a bum all night long, are you? I thought we were going to have some fun."

Face took another drag on his cigarette, staring at it for a moment as he debated the cost/benefit ratio of smoking something a little more... potent tonight. He put the thought out of his mind. Not smart. "I told you I wasn't in the mood for this."

As he reached back, Face suddenly realized there was still blood around and under his nails that hadn't been completely washed or worn off from the mission they'd just returned from the night before. His eyes narrowed as he studied it. "Shit," he mumbled, under his breath. "Man, I hate that..."

Cruiser glanced, saw, and sighed. "Fuck it, Face. You can't sit here and mope all goddamn night." He clapped the lieutenant on the shoulder. "There's plenty of booze and pussy to be had. Take advantage of it."

Face glanced around once more at said "pussy" - the bar was full of it, no doubt - but he couldn't even feign interest. Not tonight. He turned back to the bar, picking at his nails. "I wonder if I could get us a few days of R&R somewhere _away _from this hell hole..."

"You figure out a way to get us out of here, and I will help any way you want me to." Cruiser watched Face pick at his nails. "But I assume that isn't going to happen tonight."

Face felt the approach. He hoped it wasn't for him. He shrank back a little, but the woman wasn't interested in him anyways. Her eyes were locked on Cruiser. She was young – _God_, was she young - but they all were. Pretty, smiling, dressed in a loose-fitting cream-colored dress that was nearly see through and fell to mid-thigh... she was worth Cruiser's attention.

She wasn't worth Face's.

"You Green Beret?" she cooed in fragmented English. Face took another drink as he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She reached up and touched Cruiser's hat, letting her fingers trail along the side of his face.

Cruiser gave a toothy grin. "Hmm. Yes. Green Beret." He turned with her, grabbing the bar behind her and locking her in. Face leaned away, giving them room. "You like?"

"I like." She giggled and slid one leg forward, between his, rubbing him with her thigh. "You party?"

"Absolutely." He ground slightly on her. "How much?"

"Fifteen dollar."

"Sounds like a deal to me. What do you say, Face?"

Face managed to look away fast enough to avoid eye contact. "Told you, Cruiser. Not interested."

"You friend?" the girl asked. "He seem sad." Her voice was dripping with innuendo, even though she'd barely said anything at all. Face put a hand in his hair, blocking his peripheral view of her, debating where he'd go if he got up and left.

"He's game," Cruiser said confidently.

Face's jaw set. "He's _not _game."

Cruiser ignored him. "What about your friends?"

He could feel the girl's eyes on him, and over the chatter and the music in the bar, he just barely heard her quiet words to Cruiser. "I find friend for him. Yeah?"

"Find as many as you want."

She giggled as she ducked away and disappeared into the crowd. Face was drowning in a third - fourth? - glass of beer when Cruiser called over the barkeep and ordered four shots of tequila. He set two of them in front of Face, and waited. Face turned back, reluctantly, and stared at the glasses for a moment before he looked up at Cruiser. His expression was blank, unreadable, and he didn't speak.

Cruiser sighed at the indifference. "Come on, man. On three we throw them back and whoever finishes both shots last buys the next round." He grabbed his glass from the bar and waited... again.

Face's eyes lowered to the shots and reluctantly took one of the glasses in hand, meeting Cruiser's stare. They threw back simultaneously, and Face almost gagged on the sudden switch in taste from the beer he'd been downing. Hard liquor after four beers. That was a good way to make himself sick. _Should've thought of that before you started with the beer..._ He grabbed the second shot, swallowed it, and clacked the glass on the bar top, upside down.

Cruiser laughed, then waved to the bartender for another round. The bartender opted to just leave the bottle and Cruiser poured again. Face eyed the glasses warily as they were filled. "You're gonna make me sick. You know that, right?"

Stupid thing to say.

"Come on," Cruiser sneered. "We need to go back and get your big boy pants?"

Face glared at him. It turned to a challenge as he took the next glass. He probably would get sick on this. Not that it was that much, but the way he was drinking it. Beer and liquor didn't mix too well in that order. But he wasn't about to back down to Cruiser.

"Keep it up, Cruiser, and we'll be doing bourbon next." He smirked, knowing that was the one thing Cruiser couldn't stand to drink.

"I don't think you'll make it to bourbon," Cruiser answered confidently.

"Heh." Face managed a slight smile. "Not if either one of us want to find our way back to the safe house tonight, I won't."

He glanced up as he felt - more than saw - the approach from the side. Two women - one of whom had already been hanging on Cruiser. The other, just as young and pretty, but slightly less forward than her friend. Where the first girl immediately wrapped her arms around Cruiser's neck and brightly announced "I back!", the second hung back, eyes lowered slightly.

Cruiser ignored her completely, picking his girl up and turning to set her down on the bar stool. "I see that."

Out of the corner of his eye, Face watched him kiss her. He was probably just starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, a little buzzed and a little uninhibited. Face hoped he had enough sense not to fuck her right here in the bar. Not that it would be the first time. It probably wouldn't even turn heads, much less get them thrown out.

"Hi," Face said quietly, watching the young girl whose shy smile and dark eyes seemed in stark contrast to her "friend's".

"Me Sue," she answered softly, fluttering her eyelashes a little more than necessary. She reached past him for the bottle. "You like tequila?"

Face watched her pour. "I like it well enough. _Fran_ç_ais_?"

Her eyes brightened a little. "_Oui, je parle français._"

Face switched languages on the very good chance that his French was better her English, and took the glass she offered him, then the bottle from her hand. "{Would you like a drink?}"

His smile was subtle. The alcohol had definitely mellowed him more than it had riled him. He was already pouring as she nodded, and he handed her the glass, letting their fingers touch a little longer than strictly necessary.

He tipped his head down slightly and lightly touched his glass to hers. "{To common ground and relaxing nights.}"

The girl seated on the stool with Cruiser seemed interested in neither. As he tipped the shot back, she was already working her hands down into the front of Cruiser's pants, laughing quietly as she tipped her head to give him better access to her neck. Face watched them out of the corner of his eye as Cruiser lifted her, turned to take her place on the stool, and pulled her tightly onto his lap, her back against the bar.

"{You are very cute,}" Sue said innocently, leaning in close as she reached behind Face to set the glass on the bar.

Face set his glass behind him, beside hers, and reached up to touch her cheek gently. "{So are you.}"

She blushed, lowering her eyes and raising her hand over his. She traced his rough fingers with her thumb. As she stepped closer to kiss him, he let his eyes slide closed, stroking her hair. He was starting to feel the alcohol. It wasn't nearly enough to make him drunk, but certainly enough to make his thoughts a little less focused and coherent.

The light, soft brush of her hand on his jaw made him smile into the kiss. Either she was very new or very good, one of the two. She knew how to respond to him, how to read him. Her touch, sliding back to his hair with such gentle care it could almost be considered hesitation, was in stark contrast to the woman on the stool beside him, who had already locked her ankles behind Cruiser and was grinding down on him. He wondered if it was just her style or if she really realized that there was a reason Face had zero interest in Cruiser's new friend. He suspected the latter.

Cruiser was far too engaged to consider such detailed, introspective matters. He seemed more than happy to take the situation for what it was. The girl on his lap gave an exaggerated moan as he brought his mouth down around her nipples, kissing through the flimsy material.

"You fun, Green Beret!" The girl's broken English was filled with laughter. "We go. I love you long time."

"In a minute." Cruiser answered quietly. He smiled as he wrapped his arm around her waist. "I'm in no rush."

Out of the corner of his eye, Face saw her hand inside Cruiser's pants. He hoped he wasn't planning to fuck her in the bar. That always risked a fight. A slow, intense kiss from Sue distracted him.

"Face? Ready?"

"Mmm..." He pulled away slowly, smiling at Sue.

Cruiser tossed money on the bar for the bottles, then grabbed all three between the fingers of one hand, his other arm supporting the girl still draped over him as he stood up to leave. Face cast a sideways glance at him. Leaving. He knew Face would follow. It was an unspoken rule, and had been from day one. Too many things went wrong in hotel rooms and brothels with Vietnamese women. Too many boys had died. When they went out together, they came back together. Privacy be damned. And depending on the town, quite often they only went out together.

Face looked back at Sue and smiled gently. "{You want to get out of here? This place is kind of loud.}"

She smiled and nodded. "{We follow them, right?}"

Her delicate fingers slid alongside his, but Face pulled his hand away, instead using that arm to circle her shoulders, pulling her close to him as he stood. He exchanged glances with Cruiser, who was stumbling a bit as the girl in his arms struggled to get her feet on the ground. He let her go, but slapped her ass as her feet found the floor.

She squeaked, jumping as if startled. Then, with a perfectly practiced pout, she stuck her tongue out at him.

He smiled. "I'll bet you know how to use that." He probably would've chased her for it if his legs had been a little more stable.

She grinned back at him. "You right, Green Beret." She took his hand, and the four of them filed out of the bar.


	6. Chapter Five

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Face stood at the window with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigar in the other, staring out at the shadows of the empty city. This section of town was dead after dark, with no bars or clubs to attract the night crowd that flooded the streets of other neighborhoods. Alone in the apartment with only the droning sounds of the radio and the whirring of the ceiling fan, Face closed his eyes and rested his head on his forearm. He was still reeling from the effects of those few moments in Jessica's house. Those few glimpses of that boy. How old was he? Six? Seven? Face had last seen Jessica in 69. That was too far back, wasn't it? But _damn _if that boy didn't look familiar!

Maybe he was reading too much into it…

Not quite as disturbing, but definitely worth consideration - how the hell had he managed to rope himself into another date with Jessica? More to the point, how had he managed to impress her mother so much, so quickly, without even trying? He didn't have to go tomorrow. He could think of a thousand ways he could talk his way out of it. It would be effortless. One phone call, a deep and heartfelt apology, and he never had to see her again. It was safe, and simple, and he couldn't think of one good reason why he shouldn't just pick up the phone right now.

The sound of the phone ringing made him jump, splashing wine onto the already-stained carpet. With a deep sigh, he set the glass down and crossed the living room to the counter that separated it from the kitchen. "Hello?"

"Well, you answered your phone. That means it didn't go as well as you'd hoped."

Face rolled his eyes as he set the cigar in the ashtray. "What do you want, Murdock?"

"What do I want? Why, I'm offended at the implication that the only time I would ever call you is when I want something."

"Uh huh. So what do you want?"

"I left my hat in your car."

"Your what?"

"My hat! You know, that thing that goes on my head."

Face rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll bring it to you tomorrow."

"No, I need it tonight."

"What? Why?"

"Because it's my security blanket! I need it to help me fall asleep."

Face sighed and rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes. "It's just a black cap, Murdock. Someone at the hospital probably has one."

"They don't. I checked. And even if they did, it wouldn't be _my _hat."

"Murdock…"

"Come on, Face."

"Visiting hours are over."

"So? I know you could get it up here to me, Face. I got the utmost confidence in you."

Face dropped his hand and crossed it over his chest, holding his other arm. "I am absolutely not bringing your hat to you tonight," he said firmly.

"What if it was my jacket? You'd bring my jacket to me if I left my jacket in your car, wouldn't you?"

Face sighed, exasperated. "Murdock…"

"Okay, okay." He paused for a minute. "So how'd it go with Jessica?"

The real reason he'd called was clear. "I never told you her name," Face pointed out. "Which means you've been digging around for information on her."

"Aw, Face, now why would I do a thing like that?" He could practically hear the smile.

"That's a good question."

"Well, I'll answer it for you. I'd do it because she looked kinda familiar. And it turns out I was right."

Face sighed. "Fine. I'll bite. What did you really call to tell me?"

"Uh, three things. First… I found out where I recognized her from."

"Duc Lap," Face finished for him. "She was out there training the CIDG."

"Okay, you know that one. But did you know she's an orthopedic surgeon?"

"Yes, she told me."

"I hear she's a good one, too. I was pretty impressed."

"Three things, Murdock," Face reminded. "And this last one had better be good or I'm hanging up."

"Oh. Yeah. Heh. You'll like this one. Did you know that a couple years ago, she had a lengthy relationship with another soldier by the name of James Harrison?"

Face's eyes opened instantly at the name and he stood up straighter. "Cruiser?"

"Well, the name's not all that uncommon but… yeah. That'd be my guess."

Face frowned. "How the hell could you know that? How could anyone know that when she's only been at the hospital three days?"

"Oh, believe me, it wasn't easy. I had to _pry _it outta her friend in X-Ray. I guess they're pretty close. Pretty girl. Brunette. Surprised you don't know her."

"What reason have I ever had to go down to X-Ray?"

"What reason have you had to be on a date with an orthopedic surgeon? Anyways, I thought you might wanna know. Kind of an amazing coincidence, I think."

"Yeah," Face mumbled, deep in thought.

"Well, hey, at least we know Cruiser's alive. Haven't heard from him in, what, seven years?"

Face frowned deeply. "I gotta go."

"A'right. Bring me my hat tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"Thanks, Faceman. Night!"

He didn't have time to say good-bye before Murdock hung up, even if he'd wanted to. With a sigh, he replaced the phone, and leaned forward on the counter. Jessica and Cruiser? As far as he'd known, Cruiser had only met her once, and the two of them had hardly exchanged words after that.

He frowned as he recalled their conversation earlier that evening. Hadn't she even _asked _him about Cruiser? What the hell was that about? Maybe he'd go to dinner after all. Morbid curiosity was driving him to question why she'd failed to mention dating a member of his old unit. Especially given that she'd asked if he'd seen Cruiser recently. Why hide that? The question nagged at him.

Still, if he went to her house tomorrow, he was going to have to make his intentions very clear. One thing was for damn sure: he didn't want to get any closer to her than he absolutely had to, especially if she was still on speaking terms with Cruiser.

**1969**

"You alright?"

Face was drunk. Cruiser knew it just by the look in his eye. The fact that he couldn't walk straight just made it that much more obvious. He nearly fell over as he got distracted by trying to answer, and grabbed Cruiser's arm for balance. "I think... I gotta siddown a minute..."

Cruiser chuckled as he steadied him. "Don't worry Face, I know CPR."

Off of the street, in the narrow alleyway between the buildings, Face slid down the wall until he was sitting on the ground and hunched over his knees. "Sorry," he slurred.

Cruiser leaned against the opposite wall, and made a dismissive gesture in regards to Face's apology.

Face dragged his eyes up and held his knees tighter for balance. Cruiser would be worried that he was going to be sick, but he'd already done that. There wasn't anything left in his stomach. "How is it," Face managed weakly, "that you're the one who wants to go out drinking... and by the end of the night... I'm the one who ends up too fuckin' drunk to walk?"

"Mmm... I'm no amature." Cruiser grinned in amusement. "Besides, it's good for you to let go every once in a while."

Face frowned deeply and turned his head away. If he'd even caught the dig, he didn't bother responding to it. "You know, I can't think of even one way that this is good."

"Escapism, LT."

Face started to shake his head, but it apparently made the vertigo worse. He sought something to grab on to, and found Cruiser's leg. Steadying himself, he leaned forward, resting his head on his knees. He wasn't at all aware of his surroundings and Cruiser knew it. It was a damn _good _thing that Cruiser was still mostly sober.

"Escapism is not a good thing," Face slurred.

Cruiser looked around the alley again. Everything was quiet and he was tired. He slid down the wall and found the ground. "Yeah? Your reality was so great that you came here to get away from it."

Face didn't look up. "This was your idea, remember?"

"I didn't twist your arm into joining me." Cruiser wearily eyed the street, wishing he had another drink in his hand. "Seriously Face, what is it about letting go that terrifies you so much?"

Face sighed. "It's not that." He raised his head, resting his chin on his knees. "This just isn't smart."

Cruiser laughed freely at that, but let him continue.

"And it's not..." Face didn't finish. Instead, he sighed deeply and turned his head to look out at the empty street.

"None of this is smart, Face. You have to either be off your rocker or suicidal to join up once let alone twice. Nobody ever seriously expected you to come back after that injury. Sure as hell, we didn't expect you to come back with a commission."

Face didn't answer for a long time. When he finally did answer, it was barely a whisper. "I wanna go home."

Cruiser was caught off guard with the sincerity that rang through the whisper. Like a slap to the face, it sobered him. They didn't say things like that – least of all Face. It had to be the liquor talking. But even so, it had been said with the utmost seriousness. Cruiser stared at him, not sure how to answer. He somehow felt like he'd just stepped into dangerous territory without even meaning to.

"Why don't you?" he asked cautiously. "What's keeping you here?"

Face shut his eyes and shook his head just slightly. "I can't."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Face looked up and glared. "It means I can't," he shot coldly. He didn't look away, daring Cruiser to challenge him.

Cruiser sighed, and looked away. He didn't handle playing camp counselor very well. But he'd gotten himself into this conversation, and now he had to get himself out. "Come on man, what's the deal? You been here over two years. You want to go back, you _can_. So what is so god-awful back home that being miserable here is better?"

The words seemed to confuse Face. "I didn't say I was miserable. I just said I wanna go home."

"So what does that mean?"

Face hesitated. "I've been here a long time, Cruiser."

"Uh huh. Two years. Just said that."

"I just..." He looked up, meeting Cruiser's gaze. "I'm tired. I'm cold."

Cruiser gave a quick, mocking laugh. "Cold?" It was still over ninety degrees out and the sun had been down for hours. "Cold" was not a word that should've been in his vocabulary.

"I know it doesn't… I don't think about it." Face stammered as he tried to put his thoughts into words. "I can't think about it. But I'm just so damn tired and it's just so… It never ends. Nothing ever feels good – not really. And I've been here so goddamn long."

"Everyone's been here for a long time. _Not _everyone can go home." Cruiser let the statement ask the question again. He didn't enjoy talking in circles.

Face stared at him for a moment, then looked away. "You ever think about... what it would be like? To go back?" He looked back at Cruiser, expression and words both totally sincere. "To try and pretend like none of this happened? Like you aren't... who you are?"

"Of course I've thought about it. We've all thought about it."

Face shook his head slightly. "I can't do that, Cruiser. I can't go back. I can't live through this. And I..." He covered his face with his hands as he trailed off.

Cruiser sighed as he looked out at the street again. "You know, for a guy so good at getting what he wants, it sure has taken you a long time to get yourself killed."

He watched Face closely for a reaction, anything that would show him his friend wasn't serious. He made a point of not befriending people here and didn't like the idea that the few that he had invested in were bent on destruction. This was not the kind of conversation he enjoyed, by any stretch of the imagination.

Face kept his hands up for a moment longer, then dropped them into his lap and put his head back on the wall with a deep sigh. "It's not that simple. I'd do it right here and now if it was that simple. But it's not."

Fuck. "What complicates it?" Cruiser kept his gaze averted as Face pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. "It's not the lack of opportunity, that's for sure."

Face didn't answer.

"Is it that Catholic schoolboy upbringing?"

"No, actually, it's you."

Cruiser looked back at him, eyes narrowed. "Fuck you, Face; don't lay this shit on me." Cruiser pushed himself back to his feet. "You wanting to die is your baggage. The fact that you don't have the balls to do it has nothing to do with me."

Face looked away, and made no attempt to get up. "That's not what I meant."

Cruiser glared. "So what did you mean?"

Face shut his eyes and shook his head slightly. "I don't know," he sighed, resigned and tired.

"You're a man of words, Face; figure it out."

Face didn't want an argument. He had neither the will nor the mental clarity for that. "Whatever, Cruiser. Forget it."

Cruiser sighed and looked away, running a hand through his hair. Fuck, he hated this. Guessing his way around an emotional minefield was not his forte. Willing this conversation to be over, he took a step towards Face and held out a hand. "Come on, man. We can't stay here all night."

Face stared at the hand for a long moment, then finally reached up and clasped it, rising unsteadily to his feet. He lost his balance quickly and nearly fell right into Cruiser. Wobbling on weak legs, he put one hand back to the wall for support as Cruiser steadied him.

"Shit, I dunno if I can make it all the way back."

Cruiser held his shoulders, making sure his footing was sure. "You don't have a whole lot of choices. It's not like we packed sleeping bags."

Face groaned. "How the hell do I let you talk me into this shit?"

Cruiser couldn't help but crack a smile at that as he put an arm around Face to help him walk. "That, LT, is for me know and use to my advantage."


	7. Chapter Six

**CHAPTER SIX**

Face knew this wasn't a good idea. He felt the way he always had when he was about to drop into enemy territory: his heart beating in his ears and the adrenaline rushing through his veins. There were a thousand ways he could've avoided this. A thousand reasons why he should've. Only one reason why he shouldn't – his curiosity about Jessica's ex-boyfriend – and suddenly, it didn't seem worth it. But he was already here, and he'd already rung the doorbell. He was trapped.

He shook the sudden and unexpected thought of the boy from the night before out of his mind before it had any chance to put down roots. That was nothing. He was imagining it, surely. If it had been anything, she would've told him. She hadn't even mentioned she had kids. So it had to be nothing. Just his eyes playing tricks on him.

What the hell was he doing here?

Jessica answered the door only a few seconds after he'd hit the doorbell. He smiled politely as she opened the door wider and gestured for him to come in. They touched cheeks and shared a careful, uncomfortable embrace. She didn't want him here any more than he wanted to be here. She was probably cursing him for coming, for _not _making up an excuse.

The entire house smelled like warm food and quiet piano music was playing from the phonograph in the corner of the living room. Face couldn't remember the last time he'd been in an atmosphere like this. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so uncomfortable in such a quiet, pleasant, _safe _place. Why was his heart pounding in his ears as if he were in a combat zone?

"James! Give it _back_!"

Face was almost knocked over backwards by the two children running helter-skelter through the living room. "James," Jessica warned, with a tone only a mother could masterfully use.

"He has my –" The girl finally tackled her brother and with one arm around his neck, wrestled him to the floor. " – doll!"

Jessica sighed deeply as Face studied the girl. It was hard to tell whether she was older or younger. They looked to be about the same age. "James, give her the doll back," Jessica ordered. "What on earth are you doing playing with her dolls in the first place?"

"I wasn't playing with them," James said indignantly.

"Well, then, why was it in your hands?"

"Because she threw it at me."

"I did not!" the girl cried.

Momma stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. "Why don't you kids go wash?"

Both children sprinted again through the living room only to be met with a sharp rebuke from Jessica. "Walk!" She put her hands on her hips. "If you can't behave yourselves, you're going to be headed straight to bed. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am!" two voices called back in chorus as they walked quickly toward the bathroom, both trying to edge around each other to be first.

Jessica hid her face. "I'm so sorry," she apologized. "We just got back from the beach about a half hour ago and they're still all wound up."

Face nodded. "It's alright." He hesitated a moment, studying Jessica carefully. "You uh… didn't mention you had children."

"I didn't figure it was all that important to our one casual dinner date."

"You're not scared, are you boy?" Momma teased. "If you can survive the whole Viet Cong army, surely you can survive eight-year-old twins."

He laughed nervously. Twins. Eight-years-old. He did the math, and felt his stomach flop. Suddenly, the thought crossed his mind that he would _rather _be facing the Viet Cong army than Jessica and her two children…

**1969**

"What is that thing?" Boston yelled over the sound of the chopper blades.

Face glanced up, and smiled as he held up the oddly shaped pistol. "It's called a Gyrojet," he answered. "Fires a 13mm mini rocket at 1300 feet per second. Neat, huh?"

Hannibal chuckled. "So you finally get a chance to try out your new toy, huh, Lieutenant?"

Face smirked. But before he could answer, the unfamiliar pilot's voice came through the intercom. "Hey guys, check out the pretty lights."

They all turned, staring out the side of the Huey as the chopper swung around and gave them a clear view. On the horizon, beneath the formations of the B-52 bombers, the jungle was in flames. Face sighed. "Well, there you go, Hannibal." He gestured to the fires. "Happy Fourth of July."

Hannibal grinned, a wild look in his eye. "I love it."

"Oh, I know you do," Face said dryly. He looked away.

"What's the matter, Lieutenant?" Hannibal taunted. "Not feeling up to it?"

Face glared at him. "You know how I feel about this."

Hannibal laughed, clapping a hand over his shoulder. "I know. You're such a good sport."

Face rolled his eyes, shaking his head a little as they came closer to the dying fires. "Circle around, will you, Prost?" Hannibal called through the intercom.

"I'll have to anyways; the LZ's on the other side." He paused. "Unless you just wanna bail out right in the middle of all that."

Face gave a lingering, wary glance at the pilot, then moved to the edge of the chopper and sat with his feet down on the skid, surveying the damage. The craters were deep and still smoldering. Trees on the outskirts of the damaged area were still burning. The earth was shredded, loose clay in waves that had rippled out from the bombs, the ridges overlapping each other. What could possibly have survived that? Even if they were hiding, it seemed that the concussions would have caused cave-ins enough to bury the entire underground structure. It had all been dug by hand, after all. What creation by human hands could possibly stand up to a 500-pound bomb? Or two _thousand _of them…

Twenty minutes later, the team of four Americans and eight Vietnamese soldiers set down in the LZ, near Laotian Highway 96. Without a word, they moved quickly away from the chopper as it took off again. Face didn't watch it go. For the pilot, it was routine – easier than normal, actually. The enemy was neither interested nor prepared to deal with the helicopter. Not after all this. But they would sure as hell be interested in the team that the helicopter dropped off.

It took five minutes.

They'd barely gone a hundred yards from the LZ when the first shots rang out, and they all hit the dirt as they realized that they were being rushed by an entire company running helter-skelter over the badly damaged terrain. "Fight it out!" Hannibal yelled.

It was suicide – the exact sort of thing that made previous teams question Hannibal's sanity. The Vietnamese hesitated; the Americans didn't. As had been the case so many times before, their One-Zero's instinct was held in higher regard than their own. In seconds, they were returning fire.

Over the sound of the rattling guns, Hannibal shouted orders. "Face, you three, go left! Boston, take those three right! Flank them on either side! Cruiser with me!"

Still firing in short, three second bursts, Face moved. He could still hear Hannibal's voice, carrying over the cries of wounded men and firing guns. "Move in! Move in!"

As they pressed in, the enemy gradually began to fall back. Just a few feet to Face's left, one of the Vietnamese allies was torn to shreds by incoming fire. Gritting his teeth, Face ducked his head behind the ridge in the loose earth. The enemy had a fix on their position.

Grenades. He pulled the pin, gave a quick glance back to gauge the distance, then lobbed it as hard as he could in their direction. He couldn't hear Hannibal anymore. He could only guess that the orders had not changed. Another grenade, he reloaded his CAR-15, then turned and opened fire again.

There was a wounded ally out there in the midst of the bloody bodies. Face saw him immediately, and saw the man lying beside him, too. They were both Vietnamese, but they were in American uniforms. And they were alive, struggling to crawl back the way they'd come. Back to where Hannibal was no doubt still trying to advance. He wouldn't be able to go much further before he was nose-to-nose with them. They weren't falling back anymore, although their numbers were drastically diminishing.

Still, those men were dead without someone to retrieve them. Face didn't even think about it. He just moved. Firing with his right arm, he pulled a tape-covered grenade pin with his teeth and threw with his left. It startled them, just for a second. A second's time was all he needed. He used his free arm to lift the man, threw him over his shoulder, and turned back. He barely had time to see the second wave of enemy soldiers running at him – reinforcements.

He dropped the bleeding, wounded man on the ground without thought and hit the dirt as the first bullets whizzed past. Another grenade, and he cut down the front lines of their ranks with bullets. He'd almost forgotten about the Gyrojet pistol until he realized he was running out of ammunition. He hoped to God that an extraction was on the way. Their chopper couldn't have gotten far. But they would still have to make it back to an LZ. No way it could land in the middle of this.

No way a pilot would even try.

More NVA were flooding from the trees. Desperately outnumbered and out in the open, Face had a choice to either leave the man and scramble for safety or to stay there and die. The tiny rockets from the Gyrojet smashed into the chests of the enemy soldiers like .50-caliber machine gun slugs. Through the ringing that echoed in his ears, he could hear planes overhead. He looked up, and his eyes widened. They were dropping more bombs.

"Fuck!"

He grabbed the wounded man's arm, still shooting at the enemy with his other hand, and dragged him through the mud. The enemy's attention was diverted slightly by the whistling sound overhead, and Face threw himself and the wounded man into one of the craters as the first bombs hit no more than thirty feet away. The ground shook violently as the heat and flames whooshed outward from the impact. Face was still rolling down the side of the crater when it hit, and by the time he came to a stop – lying on his back with his gun across his chest – he could hear the screams.

For a moment, he just lay still, dazed. But only for a moment. Then, with a vicious determination, he jerked himself back up to his feet and looked around for the wounded man he'd gone out to retrieve. He was there, covered in mud, wide-eyed and bloody - but breathing.

Face reloaded – he was officially low on ammo now – and bent down to hoist the man up, throwing him again over his shoulder. The ground quaked with every hit from the air strike. Twice, he fell before he saw Boston.

"You okay?" From the tone, Face could tell that Boston was just as saturated with adrenaline as he was.

"I'm fine." Was he fine? He had no idea. He knew there was no way he'd be able to feel pain right now. "Why the fuck are they bombing?"

Boston ignored him. He took the man, and Face stumbled on ahead to the bloody scene on the ridge that Hannibal had posted at. The falling bombs had scattered the enemy, and he only had a few stray rounds to dodge on his way to the hill. For just an instant when he reached it, he felt a flash of panic until he saw Hannibal. Then he saw Cruiser. They were both alive. They were also both very busy, trying to keep an allied Vietnamese from bleeding to death. Face dropped to the ground beside them and took over for Hannibal, pressing his hands into the bloody wound. The man's thighs and groin were shredded.

"What the hell happened?" Face demanded as Cruiser hastily wrapped the man's legs as tightly as he could.

"RPG," Cruiser answered quickly. "Hannibal got hit, too."

Face turned and saw that Hannibal was indeed bleeding from his back – though the wound was nothing compared to the amount of blood pouring from the man on the ground. Face could feel it pump every time the soldier's heart beat, spilling out onto his hands – hot and sticky.

"We gotta get out of here." Face could hear the tension in his own voice – a sound that might have been panic if he had been anyone else.

"Hannibal called the strike," Cruiser said, between gasped breaths, "and an extraction. But we gotta make it back to the LZ."

Cruiser finished with the left leg, and Face jumped back as he switched to the other side. The bandages wouldn't stop the bleeding. The one Cruiser had just finished wrapping was already soaked. But without the pressure, the man would surely bleed out within minutes. Face crawled back towards Hannibal and Boston – who were both huddled over the radio. The man Face had dragged to safety was lying still on the ground – unconscious or dead, Face couldn't be sure.

"We're going to try and make it back to the LZ?" Face yelled over the sound of the screams and explosions.

"No!" Boston shouted back as Hannibal turned away, shouting coordinates into the radio. "FAC says he won't call an extraction here!"

"What!"

"Hannibal's talking direct to Prost!"

Face's heart sank. He was never happy to learn that their lives were contingent on a dangerous extraction, and the willingness of a pilot to pull it off. Few chopper pilots would risk an extraction in a place like this. Especially if the FAC was in their ears telling them it was too hot.

They were screwed.

Hannibal looked up suddenly. "Pop smoke!"

Without thought, Face sent up a cloud of WP smoke. Seconds later, he could hear the chopper blades, and he scanned to see the Huey returning, escorted by two gunships.

The ground was too damaged to land. The chopper hovered, ignoring the rounds from the soldiers who'd not been cut down by the B-52s. They had RPGs – the pilot had to know it – but he stayed steady as the crew chief dropped a woven ladder out of the side of the chopper. Face knelt to pick up the wounded – dead? - Vietnamese as he shouldered his weapon, leaving Boston to carry the one that Cruiser was still trying to patch up.

Face went up first. Four other Vietnamese – two of them wounded but still walking – pulled themselves into the chopper. Then Boston with the badly wounded man, and Cruiser, and finally Hannibal. "Go! Go!" Face yelled as Hannibal dragged himself into the Huey and lay face down on the floor. Suddenly, Face realized how much blood he was losing.

"What the hell happened down there?" Prost yelled.

He was ignored.

Dropping to his knees beside Hannibal in the cramped space, Face grabbed him roughly by the shirt. "Get up!" he shouted. "Now!"

He didn't wait for compliance. Still drugged with adrenaline, he stood and jerked Hannibal up, onto his knees. Face could tell by the look in his eyes that he was disoriented. Without thought, Face shrugged the gun off of his shoulder and set it down, then grabbed Hannibal's shirt on either side of the buttons and pulled hard. It split. "Boston! Give me a hand!"

With shaking hands, they pushed his shirt back and turned him to look at the wound. His flesh was mangled from his left shoulder to the bottom of his right ribcage, and it was pouring blood. "Cruiser!"

"Busy!"

"Get over here! Now!"

Cruiser stumbled through the crowded cargo area of the Huey. His eyes widened as he saw the bloody mess on Hannibal's back. He bent down and grabbed the blood-soaked shirt that they'd stripped from him, thrusting it into Face's hands. "Put him face down and put pressure on it," he ordered quickly. "Try to stop the bleeding. Prost!"

"Yeah?"

"What's the nearest field hospital?"

"Uh… LZ Evans."

"You got enough fuel to make it there?"

"I should."

"Then change course."

"Roger. ETA is about ten minutes."

"Well, step on it," Cruiser ordered roughly. "Hannibal is hurt."

**1969**

The soft moan was the first indication that Hannibal was conscious. Face stood up, pacing the few steps to the side of the bed. He got there just in time to see Hannibal's eyes open. "Welcome back."

Hannibal groaned, and closed his eyes again, turning his head away. "Where am I?"

"Field hospital in Camp Evans," Face answered quietly.

"What am I doing here?"

"You got caught near an RPG. BDA over in Laos. You remember?"

Hannibal breathed deep, in and out, and nodded. "Mmm hmm."

"You're lucky, Hannibal. The guy right next to you didn't make it. He bled out on the way over here."

"Send my regards to his unit," Hannibal slurred, lips barely moving.

Face glanced up at the morphine drip running into the colonel's arm. "How's the pain?"

"Fine. Where's Cruiser?"

"Not here. Why?"

"Because I want someone to talk straight to me about how bad this is."

"It's not really that bad. But you'll be taking a few weeks off." He paused. "Remember how you told me to pack my gear with that machete up against my spine?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Well, the fact that you did that is probably the only reason why your back isn't broken in half."

Hannibal smiled. "How much morphine am I on?"

"Ten milligrams every four hours."

"That's too much. Tell them to cut it back."

"Tell them yourself. They won't listen to me about something like that."

"Tell them I said to listen to you."

Face smiled. "Right, Colonel."

"Where's Cruiser?"

Being drugged and confused must have really been a horrible feeling for Hannibal… "He's around. They kicked him out of here."

"Oh, that's right," Hannibal mumbled, "I already asked you that."

"It's alright," Face answered, infinitely patient. "Everybody took the night to kind of unwind. I think they went to Da Nang. Figured you were gonna be here a few days at least. They took Prost with them too."

"Prost?"

"AC."

"Oh, yeah." Hannibal breathed slowly. "He's good. Wonder if we can keep him."

"I don't think so."

"Why? He did good. He came in…"

"He was pretty badly shaken. Did fine in the air, but by the time we touched down and he figured out what he'd just done? He was shaking like a leaf."

"Mmm." Hannibal frowned. "He did it though."

"I don't think he'll do it again."

Hannibal smiled faintly, eyes closed. "Why didn't they get you?"

"Get me?"

"To go to Da Nang."

"Oh." Face shrugged, though he knew Hannibal couldn't see it. "Guess I just didn't feel much like partying." He paused briefly. "We didn't think you'd be awake yet. But I wanted to stay just in case. I'm glad I did."

"Worried about me, Lieutenant?" Hannibal teased, his smile growing.

Face didn't smile. "You had a rocket explode five feet away from you and rip your back to shreds. Of course I'm fuckin' worried."

"Aw… I'm touched."

The joking, patronizing tone elicited an eye-roll, but not much more. "Fuck you. You could've been killed out there."

"So could you. How is that any different from every other time?"

"Because this time, you got hurt."

"And next time, I could get killed," Hannibal said solemnly. He opened his eyes slowly, staring up at Face. "And you might have to leave my body in the jungle to rot. Or stay hidden while they torture me to try and get you to come out so they can shoot you."

Face frowned deeply, not liking the direction the conversation had turned. "What's your point?"

Hannibal closed his eyes again. "You should be in a bar, Face," he whispered. "You should be with your team."

"I am with my team," Face answered, eyes narrowed as he felt an inexplicable flicker of anger spark inside of him.

"No, you're not hearing me," Hannibal sighed. Again, he opened his eyes, and his gaze locked firmly on Face. When he spoke again, his whisper was barely audible. "Let the dead bury their own dead, Face."

Face winced at the reference, and looked away. "I wish you wouldn't quote scripture at me."

Hannibal took a slow, deep breath, then let his eyes shut again. "You need to be with Boston and Cruiser. And that pilot, whatever his name was…"

"Prost," Face reminded.

"Mmm. Talk to him for me, will you? Get him to stay…"

As his voice faded, his breathing deepened. He was asleep again. Face sighed as he ran his hand through his hair, then sat down again in the chair beside the bed.


	8. Chapter Seven

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Face and Cruiser were both… occupied. Still more or less killing time while Hannibal recovered, they had wandered away from Trai Mai Linh to one of the nearby Montagnard villages. It would be a few more days, they were sure, before Hannibal would attempt another mission, in spite of the fact that he had gone AWOL from the hospital almost a week before – to General Westman's grave displeasure. He was feeling much better – "flesh wounds", he said - but he was certainly not well enough to try another recon drop.

Neither of the two Americans even heard Hannibal's voice as he called up into the hut. They didn't know he was there until he appeared in the doorway. In the flash of panic that followed, Face wound up on the floor and one of the two women in the primitive bed landed on top of him with a startled cry.

"What the hell?" It took Cruiser a moment to see who had barged into the room. Once he did, his anger turned to concern instantly.

Face, still sprawled on the bamboo floor, sought a more dignified pose, using the bed for support as he pulled himself up. "What's going on?"

"Get dressed," Hannibal ordered firmly. "Now."

Both men struggled to untangle themselves from the sheets. Their haste made clear that they had far more regard for the tone of their CO's order than the young, non-English-speaking women who stared at Hannibal in bewildered, fearful confusion.

Hannibal didn't leave. He walked back to the doorway and, with one hand on the CAR-15 slung over his shoulder, looked outside – both ways across the village. "What's wrong?" Face asked again as he struggled to pull his pants on, nearly falling over in the process.

Hannibal glanced over his shoulder at the women, who'd huddled together in the center of the bed and wrapped themselves in the sheets. "_Habillez-vous et courir_," he ordered roughly.

Face paused, knowing exactly what that meant. The VC were coming…

"They don't speak French," he answered, ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Hannibal turned to stare at Face incredulously. "You talked them into bed without even knowing their language?"

Face opened his mouth as if to answer, but had no reply. Hannibal shook his head as he turned to look outside again. He backed away suddenly and grabbed Cruiser's arm as he passed, shoving the half-dressed man to the back of the hut. "Go," he ordered.

Face, his shirt still unbuttoned, grabbed the two weapons from where they were propped against the wall and passed one to Cruiser as he hurried behind. Instead of using the stairs at the front of the raised hut, they went out the window at the back and dropped the five feet to the ground, sprinting toward the trees as soon as their feet hit.

**1978**

"Kids, go get your shoes on," Momma called, emerging from the kitchen where she'd just finished cleaning dishes from a delicious but very tense meal. "We're going for ice cream."

An excited chorus of "yay!" answered her as the children scrambled for the coat closet.

"Ice cream?" Jessica asked, sounding uncertain.

"Not for you," Momma corrected. "You two can stay right here and talk." She grinned. "You have a lot to catch up on, I'm sure."

Arguing was futile, but Jessica tried it anyways. She kept trying right up to the point that Momma walked out the front door with the children and closed it behind her. "What's wrong with ice cream?" Face asked, sitting down on the piano bench, since it was the nearest place.

Jessica sighed. "They don't need that much sugar," she said. "Especially Heather. She gets nightmares when she has too much sugar before bed."

Face glanced quickly at the clock. "It's still a few hours before bed," he pointed out.

"I know, but…"

Face suspected that it had less to do with the ice cream than the fact that Momma seemed to be pushing the two of them together. She wasn't even being subtle about it. That had to be even more uncomfortable for Jessica than it was for Face; she was a grown woman with two children of her own and a mother who was still trying to interfere in her social life.

"So where did you say you moved here from?" Face asked cautiously.

"St. Louis. About five years ago."

"Must be hard to pick up and move like that."

"I needed a fresh start."

The window of opportunity was suddenly flung wide open. "Bad breakup?" Face glanced back at her to see her reaction.

She only smirked. "Not particularly."

And the window was once again shut.

He took a few steps and leaned on the back of the couch, arms crossed. "Why _did _you move here?"

"Momma owns the house. She wanted to help with the kids and I needed someone to watch them."

"Who watched them before?" Another window?

"You talked to Carol."

Face looked at her, confused. "Carol?"

Jessica folded her arms delicately over her chest. "That's the only reason you decided to come here, isn't it? Why you didn't make up some excuse about why you couldn't make it."

Face studied her, more amused by her blatant accusation than offended by it. "Actually, it was your mother's cooking." He grinned. "I've never been one to turn down a hot meal."

"Uh huh." She took a few steps toward him. "So does that mean you _don't_ want to know how involved I was with Cruiser? How long we dated?" She didn't stop advancing until she was standing right in front of him, smiling. "How good he was in bed?"

Face laughed at the predatory look in her eye. "Are you trying to make me jealous?"

"Is it working?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He smiled wickedly. "I had you first."

Jesus! Did he really just say that? _Way to be tactful, Face…_

He looked away quickly and took a step back. "I should go," he said quickly. "Tell your mother that dinner was wonderful."

"You know she's going to ask when you're coming back."

He picked up his shoes from the carpet next to the front door. "You're welcome to use any excuse that comes to mind."

Jessica sighed as she sat down on the arm of the sofa. Whatever pheromones she'd been giving off just moments before were gone now. "I am sorry about her," Jessica said quietly. "She just… wants to help. Even when she's not helping."

"That's what mothers are for," Face answered comfortably.

As he stood, his eyes caught a glimpse of a moving shadow through the window. Instinctively, he paused and watched it. A man walking across the lawn, away from the house. He hurried across the street and climbed into a dark sedan.

"Sometimes, she gets a little –"

"Hey, Jess?" he interrupted, watching as the car sped away.

"Yeah?"

"Do you know of anyone who would be watching your house?"

She hesitated. "Watching my house?"

"Yeah."

She walked closer and pulled the curtains back. "Where?"

"He's gone now. But he was –"

The sudden, deafening sound of an explosion rocked the floor under Face's feet. He would've ducked for cover if he'd had a chance. Instead, he barely managed a breath before scorching heat hit his face. Then there was pain, and suddenly the world went black.

**1969**

"Face!"

Someone was shaking him.

"Face, get up! Come on! Move!"

He was on his feet, and someone was talking to him down a long, echoing tunnel… and shaking him. And there was pain. "Move, Lieutenant!"

Hannibal.

Confused and disoriented, the only thing he knew was that he trusted that voice unquestioningly. Without comprehension, he moved, nearly tripping on his first few steps. Then he was running through the jungle. As the world came back into focus, he could hear gunshots. Who was shooting at them? Why was everything so fuzzy?

Into the jungle, he ducked under the low-hanging vines and stumbled forward. His shoulder burned, and muscles screamed in agony as he tried to use that arm to lift away one of the branches that blocked his path. Bewildered, he looked at his injured arm and saw blood running all the way from his shoulder to his fingertips.

More gunshots from semi-automatic weapons – closer this time. He glanced back and saw Hannibal turned the other way, shooting into the trees. But a few seconds with his eyes off of the path cost him his footing and he crashed to the jungle floor. Still confused, he tried to push himself back up. His arm wasn't working.

Cruiser grabbed hold of his uninjured arm and hauled him to his feet. "Watch where you're goin' dammit," he ordered. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What happened?" Face asked. This all seemed like a dream. So surreal…

"Jesus, Face, how close were you to that explosion?"

"Explosion?"

"Just move!" Hannibal yelled. "We don't have time for this!"

**1978**

Face opened his eyes slowly. Disoriented and confused, he stared up at the leaves and intersecting branches of the trees above him. His head was pounding, and he heard fire cackling loudly, somewhere nearby. Sirens in the distance. His memories came back slowly. Women and Cruiser… Hannibal… Explosion…

Jessica.

He pushed himself up and looked around the front yard of a house in a nice neighborhood. The bottom floor of the house was engulfed in flames. They were pouring out of the windows and out of the open front door. Confused and dazed, he tried to identify familiar surroundings. As he looked around, he saw a woman sprawled on lawn a few meters away. She was unconscious. Or worse.

Acting on instinct, he dragged himself up. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten out on the front lawn, but the deep gash on his arm and the shards of glass still embedded in his flesh seemed to suggest that he'd gone out the window. Whether he'd jumped out or been catapulted by the explosion, he didn't remember.

Neighbors were pouring into the street as he stumbled across the grass and grabbed Jessica by the arm. She moaned as he heaved her up and over his shoulder. She was alive. He'd only made it three steps before another man from the house across the street ducked under her other arm, taking her weight. A teenage boy stopped a few feet in front of him, eyes wild. "Is anyone still inside?"

Face shook his head and almost fell over, dizzy. He was glad for the other man carrying Jessica because Face almost collapsed himself. The boy slipped under his arm, helping to steady him. "It's okay. You're okay, man. Come on."

His eyes slid closed.

When they opened again, he was staring into a bright light. Disoriented again, he immediately tried to sit up. But a hand pushed him back down. "Just relax."

Ambulance. He was in the back of an ambulance. But it wasn't moving. "Where's Jessica?" It was the first thought that came to mind.

"She's alright," the paramedic answered. "She's right over there. Do you know where you are?"

He looked around for where "over there" was, but didn't see her. "I'm in an ambulance," he said. "Is she okay?"

He tried again to sit up and this time, the hands moved to steady him. He saw her almost immediately, sitting in the back corner of the ambulance with an oxygen mask to her face. She was conscious, and she looked at him as he sat up.

"Are you okay?" he demanded.

She nodded, but her eyes were filled with confusion and fear. Her face and arms were bright red, as if sunburned.

"Sir? I need you to lay back down, please." The hands were already pushing him back. This time, he allowed it. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

He tried focus his eyes, but he couldn't quite manage it. "Three," he guessed.

"Hey, listen, your arm is bleeding pretty bad. We're gonna get you to the hospital and get you stitched up. Is that okay?"

He shut his eyes. The lights hurt. "Mmm hmm."

"Alright, just hang on. We'll have you fixed up in no time."

**1969**

Face winced as Cruiser dug around in his arm for the pieces of shrapnel that had embedded close to the bone. He was doing his best to hold his arm steady, fighting the reflexes that made him pull away every time Cruiser hit close to a nerve.

"Jesus," Face hissed through gritted teeth. "Do we have to do this now?"

"You got a better idea?"

"Yeah, how about waiting to get back to a base so they can at least knock me the hell out."

Cruiser was practically performing surgery on his arm. Face was wondering whether he should be more concerned about infection, blood loss, or the huge mess they were going to leave behind, alerting the VC which way they'd gone.

"Well, I've got morphine," Cruiser mumbled, digging deeper until he latched onto the metal with the end of the hemostats. Out of the corner of his eye, Face saw a wicked smile cross Cruiser's face. "But you're not allowed to have any anesthetic or mind-altering drug without your commanding officer present, remember?"

Face growled, jaw clenched. "Fuck you."The rule applied to all SOG men, and had to do with security clearance. Face's was so high, there was a clause to make sure he was not anesthetized and accidentally ended up spilling top secret information to the people around him. Of course, Cruiser's security clearance was just as high. He was just bring a smart ass.

Cruiser chuckled. "There." He pulled out the last piece and Face tipped his head back as he let out the breath he'd been holding, letting the tension ease out of his muscles. He took a few deep breaths as he felt Cruiser grab his arm again, stitching the gash that the shrapnel had made when it entered. Then he wrapped the wound with clean white bandages and moved back as Face gingerly put his blood-soaked shirt back on.

"You want it?"

Face glanced at Cruiser and saw him holding up a small, clear bottle between his fingers. Morphine. Face shook his head. "It's fine as long as you're not digging around in there."

"Pussy," Cruiser smirked.

Face answered him with a one-fingered wave.

"Let's go, guys." The first indication that Hannibal had returned from his brief patrol was the sound of his voice. "We need to find our way back to the base. Before Charlie finds us."

Face dragged himself up to his feet, holding his injured arm close to him.

"Glad I keep this stuff with me," Cruiser said as he threw his meager medical supplies back into the small bag he threw over his shoulder. He glanced up at Face. "You were leavin' a trail of blood a blind man could follow."

Face frowned deeply, noting his lightheadedness. "Uh huh. I can feel it."

"Could've been worse," Hannibal pointed out. The look he gave Face was almost a glare. "Why the hell did you turn back?"

"I don't know," Face sighed, shaking his head. "I don't remember. Last thing I remember was hitting the ground."

"Well, whatever you turned back for, I hope it was worth it. We would've made it out just fine if you hadn't been caught near that explosion."

Face kept his head down as he trudged through the overgrown jungle, aware of his surroundings but not nearly as alert as he felt he should be. He was weak from blood loss, and still a bit confused.

"Hey, Hannibal?" Cruiser asked. Face glanced up at him, and briefly at Hannibal as he answered.

"Yeah?"

"How'd you know?"

"I knew where the VC were heading," Hannibal explained. "And that they were going there for Americans." He glanced first at Cruiser and then at Face. "Someone knew you were out there besides me. Who else did you tell?"

The two men exchanged glances. "I mentioned it to the XO at the camp so we could get directions," Cruiser shrugged. "No one else."

Hannibal looked to Face, but he shook his head.

"Then it had to be someone in the village," Hannibal concluded with a deep sigh. "Do me a favor, you two?"

"What's that?"

"Next time you go running off to an unfamiliar village, either be more discreet or more aware – one or the other."

Cruiser gave a half-smile, shifting his grip on the gun that was hanging from his shoulder by the strap. "Sorry, Colonel. Didn't mean to interrupt your evening."

**1978**

"Your name, sir?"

"Jeff Dales." Face was glad Jessica was in another room. "I don't have any ID on me 'cause my wallet was in the house when - "

"It's alright, Mr. Dales," the officer assured him. "I just need you to tell me what happened to the best of your memory."

Face sat forward, his legs hanging off the end of the bed in the small white room of the ER. "I just met her," he said quietly. "We knew each other a long time ago but we lost touch. I was over for dinner and her mom took her two kids out for ice cream. There's a car that was hanging around outside when I dropped her off last night and it was there again tonight. But I never got a chance to really talk to her about it. I was by the window, then I heard an explosion and the next thing I remember, I was on the front lawn."

"What kind of car was it?"

"Uh…" He fought through layers of fog to retrieve the memory. "Dark sedan. The guy inside, at least the guy I saw the other night – had dark hair, balding, dark eyes, mustache, probably 5'8", 175 pounds. No identifying marks that I could see, but it was dark. He was in a white polo, dark slacks."

The officer was scribbling furiously. "Anything else you can remember?"

God, his head hurt… "Yeah, his license plate was California 1-1-2, Bravo-Delta-Bravo."

At that, the officer paused. "You got his license plate number?" he asked, amazed.

"He looked suspicious."

In the back of his mind, Face considered the possibility that he should've withheld that last little bit of information. It made him seem a little too observant, and he didn't want to answer questions. But he wasn't thinking too clearly right now. The man had asked, and he'd answered.

The officer went back to writing for a moment, then looked up again. "Anything else?"

"No," Face answered quietly.

"Can you think of anybody who might want to harm you or Ms. Summers?"

At least a dozen people came immediately to mind.

"Like I said, I hardly know Ms. Summers. But I don't have any enemies. At least none who would want to do something like this."

"Okay." The man stood. "If you think of anything else, here's my card." Face took it and studied it for a moment. He'd keep it. It might come in handy someday. "Feel free to call me anytime."

"Thank you, officer."

He had a few more minutes to wait before he received his papers and headed to the next room. Once there, he cracked the door open slowly.

"You okay?"

Jessica looked up at the voice. She was dirty, but appeared relatively unharmed except for the redness on all of her exposed skin. She nodded. "They're letting me go," she answered quietly.

"Me too." Actually, they'd wanted him to stay overnight to make sure his concussion didn't lapse into a coma. He was leaving against medical advice. Based on what little he knew of hospitals, he suspected she was doing the same thing. He hadn't had a chance to talk to her yet, but he figured based on the oxygen he'd seen her with in the ambulance that she'd suffered smoke inhalation or something. That seemed more than sufficient to keep her overnight.

"How's your arm?" she asked quietly as he stepped through the door into the small room and sat down next to her on the hospital bed.

He glanced down at the bandage briefly. "Sixteen stitches," he answered. "I'll be alright." He studied her carefully, brushing her hair back from her burned face. "You care to tell me what that was all about?"

She looked away. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"Hey," he said, slightly indignant. "I could've been killed back there. I at least deserve to know what for."

She sighed deeply, leaning forward and holding her head in her hands. "My brother," she said quietly. "My brother's got gambling debts."

He raised a brow as he looked at her. "He must owe a hell of a lot."

"I don't even know how much," she whispered. "They came about a week ago and asked us where he was. But we don't even know. When you said someone was there…"

She trailed off, and he glanced up as a knock on the open door signaled the nurse's return. "Ms. Summers, I'll just need you to sign this right here," she directed, holding out a clipboard. "It says you understand that you're leaving against your physician's directive and that you're releasing the hospital from any liability for injuries incurred as a result of this decision."

Face had already heard the speech once. Jessica wasn't even listening. She just signed at the X and handed the clipboard back without even reading it. He didn't even have a chance to suggest to her that she might stay, just as a precaution. She was on her feet by the time the nurse handed her the discharge papers. "Thank you."

Face followed a step behind Jessica – out of the room and down the hall to the waiting room of the ER. Momma was there, and both children. "Mom! Are you alright?"

"What happened?"

"Mercy, child! You look like a wreck!"

All three greetings came at once. Momma placed a hand on her daughter's bright red cheek, then on Face's shoulder. "We're fine, Momma."

"I looked everywhere for you!"

"Wow, Mom, you're sunburned."

"Look! Mr. Peck is sunburned too!"

"You've been by the house?" Jessica asked, ignoring the children.

Momma nodded solemnly. "Now, don't you worry. Everything's gonna be just fine."

"Mom, what happened?" James questioned, hanging on her arm.

"It's…" Clearly, she didn't know how to answer him. "There was an accident, honey."

"What kind of accident?"

"Well… we…"

"There was a fire at the house," Momma explained calmly. "Remember the fire trucks that were there?"

The little girl's eyes widened. "Those were for _our _house?"

"Yes, I'm afraid they were."

"So…" James started hesitantly. "Does that mean we can't go home?"

"Well, we're just going to have to find another place to stay for a little while."

Face glanced at Jessica to see how she was taking this. She had a glazed look, staring at the children but not really seeing them.

"Where will we stay Mom?" Heather asked.

"I…" She shook her head. She clearly had no answer to that question yet.

"I got an idea! Can we go camping?"

"Ooh! Yeah, Mom, can't we?"

"You said we could go camping this summer, remember?"

"Yeah, you said!"

Jessica stared at the children with a blank look on her face. Clearly, they had no concept of what had just happened, and she was far too overwhelmed to think of explaining it. "I… I don't know, kids." Perhaps it was for the best that they didn't understand until she'd had a chance to process it.

"Oh, please!" Heather hung onto her arm, bouncing up and down. "Please? It would be so much fun!"

Face watched the exchange quietly. Camping was not exactly his idea of a good time. But he had to admit that it would be a very good distraction for two eight-year-olds, and about as safe a place as he could think of.

"Heather…" Jessica was trying to think of an excuse.

"I think it sounds like a good idea," Momma piped up, eyes locked directly on the shell-shocked woman standing in front of her. "Let's all go camping for a few days. Get out of this smoggy city."

Jessica stared at her incredulously. "Momma, we don't even have camping gear! And the insurance company and the police will want to -"

"Well, we'll just have to buy some camping gear," Momma declared, interrupting her daughter with a smile.

"And what about work?" Jessica tried again. "I can't just -"

Momma laid a hand on Jessica's shoulder. "Honey, I think everyone will understand," she said quietly.

"She's right," Face agreed quietly. "It would be safer for you to get away from the city. At least until we know what's going on here."

"Templeton, it's almost 10:00 at night! How are we going to - "

"Get a hotel for tonight," Face suggested. "Then first thing in the morning, we can…" The look on Jessica's face made him lose his train of thought. There were tears welling up in her eyes as she struggled to cope with the decision of what to do at 10:00 at night when her house had just been blown to pieces. He wondered if she'd even thought about it in all the time she'd been sitting in the emergency room.

Face sighed. "Alright, look." He eyed the children for a moment, then looked back at her. "How about – just for tonight – you all come and stay with me? I… don't have a lot of room but I've got sleeping bags for the kids and I'll sleep on the couch." He watched Jessica carefully to see how that would be received. It didn't affect her glazed look in the slightest.

"I think that's very kind of you, Templeton," Momma answered for her. Jessica hid her eyes with her hand. "What do you kids think? Would you like to go stay with Mr. Peck for the night?"

"Yeah! Yeah!"

"Do you have a big apartment?"  
"Does it have a pool?"

"Is it at the top of the building?"

"Does it have a balcony?"

"Uh…" Face didn't know which question to answer first.

"Thank you, Templeton, but..." Jessica had found her voice again. "We really don't want to impose."

"Nonsense, Jessica!" Momma cried. "The man offered! And we're very grateful. We will absolutely stay with you tonight."

That settled that.


	9. Chapter Eight

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

"That's the guy."

Face stood on the other side of Hannibal, watching the man that Boston was pointing to. The broad frame was about all they could see of him since he was buried underneath the hood of a jeep in the motor pool.

"What's so special about him?" Face asked, curious.

Boston smiled. "Trust me. He's good on the ground. I went out with him a few times from Song Be. He's got a reckless streak, but he's damn good. And he can fix or build damn near anything mechanical _or_ electrical."

"What's his specialty?" Hannibal asked.

"Commo. But he does demo too. This is his second tour."

Face shifted as the man stood up and the breadth of his shoulders became obvious. "What, exactly, do you mean by 'reckless streak'?" he asked, uneasy. He didn't like the thought of trying to drag that man off the field if he was wounded. He liked the thought of getting into a brawl with him even less.

"Well, he mostly stays to himself. Hangs out in the motor pool." Boston smirked. "Interpersonal communication is not his specialty. He's gotten into it with a few superior officers. Demoted once."

"Did he deserve it?" Hannibal asked.

Boston shrugged. "Yeah, he deserved it. But so did they."

"So by reckless, you mean more along the lines of 'drunken brawls'," Face concluded. He wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse.

"No, he was perfectly sober, actually. Guy doesn't drink. Or smoke. Aside from the whole 'fistfights with officers' thing, he's pretty straight-laced."

Face stared.

"Okay," Hannibal said conclusively. "Face?"

He raised a brow. "Colonel?"

"Go talk to him."

"Me?" Face was stunned. "What? Why? What do you want me to say?"

Hannibal smiled. "Anything you'd like."

"What the hell does that mean?"

The smile remained in place as Hannibal shrugged. "I just want to see how he handles you, Lieutenant."

"How he _handles _me? What, do you want me to antagonize him? The man is a fucking tank!"

"You don't have to antagonize him, just talk to him." Hannibal eyed him carefully. "Ask him to go with you to that Montagnard village the captain was talking about."

"I'm going to a Montagnard village?" Face asked. This day was just full of surprises.

"You are now."

Face opened his mouth to protest, realized it was futile, and closed it again. With a deep sigh, and an exchange of glances with Boston, Face shoved his hands into his pockets and headed towards the jeep.

"Hey."

The man looked up with a scrutinizing glare, raking Face up and down as if sizing him up. But when he finally spoke, he wasn't unfriendly. "Hi." Except of course for the growl in his voice. But that might have been involuntary, from the looks of him.

"Templeton Peck," Face introduced, holding out a hand. He purposely left off his rank, remembering the comments from Boston.

"BA Baracus."

They shook in greeting and Face pulled back a handful of grease. Nice… "You work in the motor pool?" he asked, glancing at the Jeep.

"No. I just help here. When I can."

As he went back to fixing whatever it was he was fixing under there, Face watched quietly. The silence wasn't uncomfortable; BA was so engrossed in whatever he was doing, it was as if Face wasn't even standing there. Watching quietly for a few minutes, Face leaned forward on the jeep. "So I heard you've been trying to get a hold of someone who could put you in touch with Hannibal Smith."

BA stopped suddenly and looked up. "Why? You know him?"

Face smiled. "I do." He glanced up as he caught sight of Cruiser out of the corner of his eye and waved him over.

BA stood straight and grabbed a rag off of the engine block. "How do you know him?"

Face didn't have a chance to answer before Cruiser approached, clapping a hand over his shoulder. "Hey, Face, we're going out exploring?" He seemed both curious and amused by that. "Your bring idea, I take it?"

"Not exactly." Face smiled back at him, then glanced to BA. "We're going out to that Yard village that's about a click east of here. You care to join us? We need somebody familiar with the area…"

BA studied them both carefully for a long moment. Cruiser took the opportunity to extend a hand and make brief introductions. "James Harrison. And you are?"

"BA Baracus." The man's attention was clearly on Face, although he shook Cruiser's hand. "Yeah," he finally agreed. "I can take you there."

"Great," Face smiled. He stepped back and gestured loosely for him to go first. "Lead on."

**1978**

The apartment that Face led them to – which he was renting under one of many aliases - was not big and it was not at the top of a building. Nor did it have a pool or a balcony. It was not a place that he would've liked to take anyone, much less children. It was unfurnished except for a bed, a couch, and a radio on an otherwise-empty entertainment center. The only thing to be found in the apartment were clothes in the closet and a few bags and boxes of easy-to-prepare food in the kitchen.

He didn't spend much time here.

Jessica stood at the window in the living room with a cigarette she'd not taken a drag from since she'd lit it. He regarded her out of the corner of his eye as he directed her children to the bedroom and the sleeping bags on the floor. He would've rather paid to put them all up in a hotel for the night. But it would have required a little more conversation about the role he was taking in this situation. And he suspected it would've been harder to talk them into it. Convincing them – more accurately, convincing Momma - to come here had been remarkably easy.

Why did he care?

As Momma took the children, she gestured to the woman standing at the window and gave Face a look that made her thoughts clear. Why wasn't he talking to her? He gave a polite smile as she turned into the room and shuffled both kids into their beds.

"You okay?"

Jessica jumped at the sound of his voice, and fidgeted as she tried to compose herself. "Yes," she stammered. "Yes, I'm fine."

She took a drag of the cigarette and coughed, holding her throat. Face slid one hand behind her back and took the cigarette with the other, leaning over to put it out in the ashtray resting on the sill. "You shouldn't do that," he said quietly. "Not when your lungs are already burned."

"My lungs are fine," she whispered, but she didn't bother looking at him.

"You should've stayed at the hospital."

"Thank you, Doctor."

The irony made for perfect sarcasm.

He brushed her hair away from her face as she leaned on the window, closing her eyes. "What am I supposed to tell the kids?"

"Worry about that later," he replied. "Right now, go take a shower. Get some sleep."

She sighed deeply, and turned to look around, past him. He stepped aside to let her gaze sweep the room. "So this is where you live?"

"Sort of," he admitted. "I don't spend much time here."

"It doesn't match the car," she pointed out. "Or the fancy dinners, or the seven hundred dollar suits."

He smiled faintly. "Like I said, I don't spend much time here."

"Where do you stay?" She rested her head back on the window frame, eyes closed. "When you're not here."

"Oh, work takes me… out of town a lot." That much was true. "And when I'm here, I usually have places to go. People to see. You know."

"Women?" she smirked. She knew the routine. "Hotel rooms?"

He shrugged, flashing a smile as she afforded him a quick glance.

"Some things never change," she sighed, looking away.

"If it makes you feel any better, none of them have ever been here."

"Why should I care?"

"Well, I just figured since you'll be sleeping in my bed…" He grinned as she shot him a look that was somewhere between amused and disgusted. He took a small step back. "Go take a shower, Jess," he suggested again. "Get some rest. We'll worry about tomorrow in the morning. Okay?"

She studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, she nodded. "Okay," she agreed reluctantly.

He leaned in and kissed her cheek briefly, far more a friendly gesture than a romantic one. "There should be a towel in the closet," he informed her. "Shouldn't be hard to find. It's probably the only thing in there."

**1969**

The village wasn't hard to find, even though they stayed off the path. Their trek wasn't recon-silent, but Face kept a watchful eye on his surroundings. They were relatively safe – as safe as any American could be in the jungle. The village was less than a mile from the camp. Though the residents did not yet trust the Americans enough to come into the safety of the camp, they had welcomed them into their village. If ever there was a safe place outside the wire, Face would've figured the village to be one. The VC had no interest in it; they were just Montagnards – second class citizens not sought after for the NVA army. It was part of the reason they made such great allies.

Face knew there was something wrong before he ever came close, when the communal homes - raised up off the ground on stilts - had still not come into view. By force of habit, he stopped short and held up a hand, the signal to stop. Behind him, Cruiser and BA stopped instantly, all sound ceasing from them as if he'd taken the needle off a record. Face scanned carefully as he reached with his other hand for the gun in his belt. Something wasn't right. He didn't have to see it or smell it to know it. He could feel it in the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, the way his stomach turned with that uneasy feeling.

There was no movement in the trees. If there had been, he would've seen it long ago. He'd been watching. Face stood completely still, weapon in hand, for a full two minutes. Then he lowered it slowly and glanced to Cruiser and BA. There was nothing to suggest that anything was wrong, except for a gut instinct. He'd learned to trust his instincts.

"We should go back."

Cruiser rolled his eyes. "Says the man who misses straight-up recon." But he didn't move.

"He's right," BA said firmly. "Somethin' don't feel right."

"Well, then, let's find out what the hell it is so we can report it. Right?" Cruiser looked back and forth between the two of them, seeking agreement.

Face glanced back at the village. His team wasn't particularly well-armed, but they weren't defenseless. And the village looked quiet. Maybe it was too quiet. Maybe that was the problem. He glanced behind him again.

"Alright, let's go."

Face stepped forward slowly, gun ready, watching for anything that moved. He was well aware of the fact that he only had so many rounds with him - against even one AK, he'd need the element of surprise. But as he came closer to the village, nothing stirred. There was no sound - even the screaming of the monkeys seemed quieter than usual. Finally, once he was within range, the smell hit him. Smoke. Not burning, but the stale smell of smoke hanging in the saturated air.

Cruiser noticed it too, and moved forward a little more quickly, coming right up behind Face. "You smell that?"

Face kept his weapon up and ready, but opted for speed over stealth as he headed for the village. Through the last of the jungle foliage and into the road that ran between the trees and the thatch buildings, some of which were smoldering. That wasn't what he smelled. He smelled the unmistakable scent of burned flesh.

"Search the buildings for survivors," he ordered flatly.

They split off immediately, sweeping through the village quickly and efficiently. It was several long minutes of eerie silence before BA's voice cut through the thick air. "Lieutenant!"

He was out the door of the hut and down the steps, gun ready, in a flash. His head swiveled in either direction, looking for BA.

"Over here!" The sergeant was standing at the edge of the trees. "There's a kid! I think it's a little girl!"

Little girl, still alive and in the jungle. Face braced himself.

"Sergeant, wait," he warned. A few steps behind the man, he pushed the hanging vines out of the way as he stumbled to the edge of a ravine. He saw only an arm on the ledge below, reaching out of an indentation. But he could hear the soft, intermitted moaning as well as BA could.

"How the hell did you find her?" he asked, resting a hand on BA's shoulder.

"I'll go down. I'll hand her up to you."

Face's grip tightened. "No," he said firmly. BA looked up. "It could be a trap. We don't even know that it's her making that noise."

BA glared. "Hey, man. I ain't gonna leave her there!"

"I'll go down," Face said quietly.

BA stared at him for a moment. Finally, he nodded.

Face crouched down, planning his decent. Then he glanced back, over his shoulder. "Lock your legs underneath that and give me your hand," he ordered, gesturing to the upraised root of a giant, leaning tree. He knew better than to simply jump into the ledge where she was sprawled on her side, even if it was only seven feet down. There was some kind of indentation in the side of the cliff – where the majority of her body was lying – and he didn't know how big it was. It could, potentially, be big enough to hold a VC.

He locked arms with the sergeant, and they exchanged nods. With his pistol in his other hand, Face used his legs to guide him along the wall as BA lowered him down, muscles straining as he tried to do it smoothly. Face locked his foot against a rock off to the side, until he was almost horizontal against the dirt wall. From that position, he was able to look into the cave before anyone inside had the opportunity to see him.

It wasn't a cave. Just a slight indentation in the dirt and rock wall. His gaze came to rest almost immediately on the naked body of a little girl with long hair. Reflexively, he shut his eyes, and took a slow, calming breath. He looked up at BA again before he dared another glance at her, and let his foot slip off the rock. "Let go," he called up. "It's clear."

BA released him, and he dropped the few feet to the ledge. It sloped against the wall, and he almost lost his balance as he disappeared under the lip of the indentation. "She okay?" BA asked. There was so much hope in his voice, it made Face cringe.

She wasn't okay. By the way she was landing, and the slope of the ledge, he guessed that she'd been tossed into the ravine and had only happened to hit the ledge and roll in here. Her arm was badly broken, and there were bruises around her neck and arms. Bruises on her thighs, too. Her hip was dislocated. She was bleeding from between her legs – a lot. But she was alive. She moaned softly as he touched her face, and her eyelids fluttered.

"It's okay," he whispered, though he knew the chances were slim to none that she would understand him. He put his gun away. "_Je veux vous aider_."

She let her eyes rest closed again, and he winced as he slid his arms under her as carefully as he could, lifting her out of the blood-soaked dirt.

"Cruiser! Where the fuck are you!"

**1978**

Face's eyes shot open and immediately, he was reaching under his pillow. Still too asleep to think, he panicked when he found nothing there and sat up abruptly, eyes darting around. Where the hell was he? This wasn't his room. This wasn't a hotel. Who had brought him here and why? No pain, no restraints. He wasn't a prisoner. Slowly, his mind caught up with his body and the racing beat of his heart. He was on a couch.

"Nice to know I'm not the only one who still has nightmares."

The voice startled him so much in his half-awake state, he spun and lost his balance, crashing to the floor and hitting his head on the coffee table. It didn't do much to help his disorientation, but the pain woke him up a little more quickly. A small figure was sitting on the floor in the corner with a bottle of wine and a glass in front of her. Jessica…

Little girl.

"Shit." He leaned forward, holding his head in his hands.

"You okay?"

As he became more aware of his surroundings, he realized he was drenched in sweat and tangled in the blanket he'd been using to sleep. He was in his living room. Jessica – and her little girl – were supposed to be in his room. He shut his eyes as he breathed hard, fists clenched in his damp hair.

"Templeton?"

"I'm fine!" he shot at her. He realized his harsh tone too late, and took a deep breath, letting his arms drop across his knees as he sat up. "I'm fine," he repeated, more softly.

He opened his eyes, and looked across the dark room at her. "You're supposed to be asleep," he reminded her as he untangled himself from the blanket.

"My house just got blown up." She tipped the bottle up, not bothering with the glass, and took a long drink. "What's your excuse?"

Without answering her, he found his footing and headed to the bathroom. Staring at himself in the mirror, he frowned. His hair was plastered to his forehead and the collar of his shirt was wet, all the way down to his chest. He closed his eyes, and saw the child's face again. He hadn't thought about her in years. Why now? He'd never wanted to think about her again. Those memories were too raw, too painful. Carrying her naked, broken body back to the base. Sitting beside her in the dispensary until she'd finally died, right before they'd found a hospital willing to take her.

He splashed water in his face, and discarded the shirt, using a rag to cool his shoulders and chest. Why the hell was he thinking about that now? It had to have something to do with the little girl sleeping in the next room. She was about the same age…

_Stop it, Face._

He left the rag in the bathtub and the shirt on the floor, then flicked off the light as he stepped back into the living room. It was hot in here. He walked to the window and opened it.

"You alright?"

He didn't look at Jessica as he walked back to the couch and sat down on the edge of it. "Fine," he finally answered, quietly.

She was silent for a long moment. He heard the bottle swish again. "For the record," she finally whispered, "Cruiser and I were never really serious."

He sighed. Somehow, that was the _furthest _thing from his mind. "It's your life, Jessica. None of my business."

"We were just friends," she continued anyways. "Our paths would cross and we dated off and on. But he never even met the kids. I didn't want that influence on them."

He sighed. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"I can't imagine you wanted my influence on them either."

"Well, you didn't know. I was the idiot who left my purse in your car."

He glanced up, studying her in the darkness. "You could've warned me, you know."

She shook her head as she studied the bottle, swirling the alcohol inside. "My kids are the single most important thing in the world to me," she whispered back. "They're also the one thing that I'll protect at all costs."

"It isn't like I'd want to hurt them, Jess. It just would've been nice to know before I… saw them."

"You never should've seen them."

"You should've told me." The tiniest flicker of anger in that firm statement of fact ended the conversation where it stood. It could go no further. Face looked away.

Several minutes later, the silence was still dragging. Face found his mind wandering, away from the girl and to the medic who'd done his best to save her life. If he had to think of Cruiser, that was how he wanted to remember him. He would've done anything to save her life, and any of the patients he'd treated in the war.

"Did you love him?" Face finally asked, trying desperately to pull his thoughts away from the war altogether.

"Cruiser?"

"Yeah."

She laughed. "What kind of a question is that?"

"A sincere one."

She looked up from her spot in the corner, and their eyes locked in the darkness. "I loved… what he represented to me."

"And what was that?"

She lowered her head, and shook it. She went back to the bottle again. "I don't know," she answered, so quiet he could barely hear her. "I don't want to talk about it. Not with everything that's going on in my head right now."

"Why don't you call him?"

"We're not really friends anymore."

He hesitated. Her tone had been unreadable. He didn't know if he was treading on dangerous territory or not. He gave her a few seconds, then prodded again. "What happened?"

She looked up. "You first," she invited.

It was his turn to look away.

"He never wanted to talk about you," she continued. "Any of you. I always figured it had to have been one hell of a fallout."

"We just…" He dropped his head forward, running his hands through his hair. "We just went our separate ways."

"Before or after you dropped out of the army?"

"Before." He glanced up. "Why? Does that make a difference?"

She shook her head. "He always said it was _because _you left."

"I thought he didn't talk about it."

She shrugged.

"I don't suppose he told you _why _we left."

"We?"

Face held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. "You should get some sleep."

For the first time, he glanced at the clock. It was almost 0400. The memories of morning training runs caught him completely off guard, and he shook his head quickly to clear it. He couldn't think about that right now. He couldn't think about that ever again. He couldn't think about any of it.

**1969**

"You okay, Face?"

Face didn't answer, staring up at the bunk above him, hands folded over his chest. His mind was wandering, and he barely heard Hannibal.

"We're sending a team to go bury the villagers."

"Not much left to bury," Face said quietly.

"Still…"

Face sighed deeply, and turned to lie on his stomach, tucking his arms under his head. "What the fuck are we doing here, Hannibal?" he asked quietly. "They trust us – we _tell _them they can trust us – and then we let shit like that happen to them?"

Hannibal didn't answer.

"That little girl just died in my arms tonight. Because her family _trusted _us."

"You make it personal, Face, and you're not going to be able to live with the guilt. You've been here long enough to know that."

Face's jaw clenched, and he pulled his emotions back in, burying them deep as he shut his eyes. "I didn't sign up for this shit," he mumbled.

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment. "Can I ask you a question, Lieutenant?"

"Ask away."

"What _did _you sign up for?"

Face's eyes opened slowly, and he stared for a long moment at nothing in particular.

"I know why you joined me," Hannibal replied. "And I can guess why you joined the Army. But why the hell did you ever go into SOG?"

"I joined SOG because I wanted off the base."

"That the only reason?"

Face felt an inexplicable stab of anger. "What the hell do you care?"

"You knew me before I ever talked to you. You knew my reputation as well as I knew yours."

"So?" Face demanded. "What's your point?"

"I just wonder sometimes, Lieutenant."

"Wonder what?"

"If I chose you…" Hannibal turned, so that Face could feel his eyes even if the colonel was out of his direct line of sight. "Or if you chose me."

"What the hell difference does it make who chose who?" Face demanded, finding Hannibal and sitting up a little so that he could stare him down. "How did we even get into this conversation?"

"You were talking about what you signed up for," Hannibal reminded him. "And I would say that if you signed up for SOG knowing that people like me called the shots… you signed up for just about anything, no holds barred."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Hannibal shrugged, but his stare was steady. "You're here to do what you're told to do," he said. "And if what you're told to do gets innocent people killed? That's not your problem."

Face glared. "Whose problem is it?" he demanded. "Yours?"

"Maybe." Hannibal paused. "But one way or another, it shouldn't affect your ability to sleep at night."

Face didn't speak, jaw clenched tightly.

"You got into this willingly. Nobody twisted your arm to go into SOG."

"Never said they did."

"You trusted your life and your loyalty to people like me. And you did it willingly. Don't forget that, Lieutenant."

"I didn't do this for loyalty and trust and love of the greater good, if that's what you're thinking," Face said coldly. "If you're thinking you can tell me it's all going to be okay because you say so, you've got another thing coming."

Hannibal smiled. "I wouldn't dream of it. Though you still haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

"What made you sign up for SOG?"

Face stared at him for a long moment, then laid back down, turning his head in the other direction. "The adrenaline," he said coldly.

**1968**

_ "Who is that?" The young soldier leaned back against the wall of the commo bunker, watching as the rotors wound down on the black, unmarked helicopter. It wasn't enemy; they weren't shooting and no enemy was stupid enough to set down just outside an American camp's concertina fences, walk up, and knock. They were Americans. Americans dressed in NVA uniforms._

_ "That," Sergeant Devon Young answered, handing Tem a cigarette before tapping one out for himself, "is Hannibal Smith."_

_ "Hannibal?" Tem raised a brow at the name._

_"His real name's John Smith. He's a Special Forces colonel."_

_ Tem glanced at the man standing beside him, unsure. "What the hell is he doing out here?" He took the lighter Devon offered and lit his cigarette. "And dressed like that…"_

_ "Who knows." Devon shrugged. "From time to time, different teams use us as a Forward Operating Base."_

_ Tem's eyes widened. "He's in the field? A colonel?"_

_ "Yeah. They're going out to do recon somewhere."_

_ "Where?"_

_ Again, Devon shrugged. "Couldn't tell you. They're real hush-hush types. Keep to themselves, mostly."_

_ Tem watched the men filter through the camp gate and Hannibal shook hands with Captain Rikland. "How long will they be here?" Tem asked, pausing for a long drag on his cigarette._

_ "Few hours. Then they'll go out a couple days. Their pilot will come back. Wait here for them to call in. He'll go get them, they'll come back here and sleep for a day or two straight, then they'll move out."_

_ Tem studied the man curiously. "He looks young for a colonel."_

_ "You look young for a sergeant."_

_ Tem smirked._

_ "Honestly, I don't know much about him. 'Cept rumor has it he'll get you killed."_

_ Tem laughed. "What?"_

_ "His teams." Devon nodded toward the men. "They don't last long. The rumors range from 'the entire team was taken POW' to 'he personally slaughtered them all'."_

_ Tem's laughter turned to a deep frown. "If there was any proof to any of that, they would've taken him out of the field long ago." _

_ "One would think." Devon paused reflectively. "He's the closest thing we've got to a living legend."_

_ Tem watched, saying nothing, as the young colonel glanced around. They locked eyes briefly, but Tem looked away._

_ "I put in a transfer request to CCN," Devon said quietly._

_ "You what?" Tem asked, stunned._

_ Devon hesitated for a long moment, watching Hannibal Smith's team disappear into the TOC, leaving Rikland behind. Then, as he took a drag off his cigarette, he cast a quick glance at Tem. "You should come with me."_

_ "Go to CCN?" Tem stared. He wasn't sure if he was more shocked by the transfer request to Command and Control North or the invitation to come along. "You're kidding, right?"_

_ Devon shrugged. "We're all gonna die out here anyways, Tem. It's just a matter of time." He glanced back at the TOC, where the last of the team of Americans and Montagnards were filtering in. "Might as well do as much good as I can while I'm here." He smiled. "Besides, I like the adrenaline."_

_ "Nightly shellings aren't enough adrenaline for you?" Tem asked with a smirk._

_ Devon shrugged. "You can't do a damn thing about that except wait it out and pray. I want out in the field. Recon."_

_ Tem shook his head. "You're nuts."_

_ "Heh. You just haven't felt it yet, Tem." He paused, nodding reflectively, then clapped a hand over Tem's shoulder. "You will. And once you get a taste of it? I got a feeling you'll understand then."_


	10. Chapter Nine

**CHAPTER NINE**

"What're you reading, Face?"

Face didn't look up, didn't flinch. Leaning back on the wall at the head of his bunk, feet out in front of him, he had a cigarette in one hand and a short stack of papers in the other. The cigarette looked like it had gone out some time ago. He didn't seem to notice. "Prisoner report," he mumbled, not pausing.

"From where?"

"Hannibal, listen to this." He tried to take a drag on the cigarette, realized it was out, and dropped it in the ashtray as he read steadily. "The prison was a one-room building sixty feet long and twenty feet wide. Its floor was of bamboo and about two or three feet above the ground. The walls and ceiling were made of poles fastened together with vines. It had an 'a' shaped grass roof. The door, four feet high and two and a half feet wide, was locked with a pole placed horizontally across its center and through two wooded keepers."

"Fascinating, Face," Hannibal said, disinterested. "Sounds like any other prisoner report. Where do you get those reports, anyways?"

"They're Agency files. I have a friend," Face replied offhandedly before he continued reading. "There were 94 prisoners. About ten of them were Pathet Lao soldiers, so on and so forth…" He skimmed, realizing he was losing Hannibal's interest. "… and four Americans."

He looked up and caught Hannibal's eye. For a moment, they stared at each other. "Where are they?" Hannibal finally asked.

"Muong Phine."

"How many guards?"

"Six. With M-1 rifles."

"Where'd the information come from?"

"A Thai escapee."

"How'd he get out?"

"Don't know. He had to be taken to the hospital before they could debrief him on that. They don't have it yet."

Hannibal blinked. "How long has it been?"

"Three hours."

The startled look turned to one of sheer amazement. "You got classified Agency files within three hours of the initial debriefing?"

"I told you, I have a friend, Hannibal, look." Face didn't pause to give the colonel a chance to interrupt. As he sat up and put his feet on the floor, he stared him down. "We could do this. Quick, too, before they even think to move them. It only took this guy three days to get back into friendly hands. Three days isn't long enough to move those prisoners. If we moved now, we could –"

"Have you forgotten that we're already _on _assignment, Lieutenant?" Hannibal interrupted, brows raised.

Face shifted. "Well, no, but… I mean, we could do this in _one _fucking day. Give me a chopper and I'll go scout it myself! Besides, what difference is one day going to make when our mission is a recon sweep of an intel area that's been there for months?"

"That's not the point, Face."

"Well, _my_ point is that there's four Americans in a prison camp that we could walk right up and take. Doesn't that take precedence?"

"No," Hannibal said firmly. "It doesn't."

Face stared.

Hannibal sighed deeply as he took a few steps closer, and sat down on the bunk across from the young lieutenant. "Look, kid. I know the way you operated before you signed on with this team. I talked to your commanding officer about those raids you used to pull to get our guys out."

"Yeah, and I was damn good at it," Face interrupted, his tone hard. "What's your point?"

"You _were_ good at it, kid. And you are. Nobody doubts that. But right now, on this team, you cannot just go running off to do your own thing every time you get a report that piques your interest. You shouldn't even _have _that report, Face. Your orders come from Westman now, remember?"

Face glared at him. "And before, they came from Captain Marshall. I understand the chain of command, Hannibal. I'm not disputing it."

"Is your friend from the Agency along your chain of command?"

"No, but –"

"Then in order to request your help in this, he needs to come to me or – preferably – to Westman."

"_I'm _coming to you," Face said firmly. He held up the papers. "I want this, Hannibal. I want to feel like we actually fucking _accomplish _something for a change instead of these stupid recon sweeps in search of old information and once in a while we get to blow up a fucking bridge or do some goddamn, pointless Bomb Damage Assessment."

Hannibal smiled tightly as he stood. "I understand, Lieutenant, and you're more than welcome to take it up with Westman. But frankly?" He clapped a hand on Face's shoulder as he passed. "I don't think he'll really give a fuck how you want to feel. And neither do I. Now gear up, we're leaving in an hour."

Face watched him go, jaw tight, and finally turned to drop the papers on his bunk before he stood and turned to his locker.

**1978**

Through the trees and out of sight, but still well within earshot of the small campsite, Face was sitting on a large flat rock, his mind wandering as he watched the tiny waves of the inland lake. Maybe they weren't really all that tiny; the tips of the caps were white. But compared to the ocean waves a hundred miles to the west, they seemed unworthy to even be called waves.

He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, feeling the warm sun drying his just-washed hair. His shoulders and back hurt from sleeping on the ground. The sun was burning his face, already scorched from the explosion. And his hair was going to be bleached nearly white before the week was through. But he'd found a shower in the bathrooms by the beach, and he was at least clean. It wasn't much, but he was grateful for the small things right now.

He felt the approach behind him before he had a chance to see or hear her, but let her come a little closer before turning. She was in a two-piece bathing suit with a towel draped around her shoulders. She most definitely did not look like a woman who'd given birth to twins. He eyed her appreciatively, as subtly as he could, before turning back to the water. "Going swimming?" he asked.

"I figured I might as well." She came closer and set her towel down on the rock beside him. "Care to join me?"

"I don't have a bathing suit," he reminded her with a smile. Thank God he didn't have a bathing suit; it was his only excuse.

"So? Just wear your shorts."

He grinned up at her before taking a drink from the warm, flat Pepsi in his hands, but didn't reply. Instead, he looked back over his shoulder. "Where are the kids?"

"With Momma. Finishing breakfast. They'll be down in a few minutes."

He watched her step carefully over the rocks in the water. Up to her ankles, then to her knees, then to her waist. The water must have been warm, because she didn't hesitate. A couple steps further, she dove down. As she emerged, she pushed her hair back, face tipped up to the sun. Face ran his tongue along his teeth as he watched her, eyes glued. She could've easily been a model. Why she'd ever chosen to go into medicine was beyond him.

"The water's perfect," she called back to shore, interrupting his thoughts.

"I believe you," he answered with a smirk. "I'm still not coming in."

"Mr. Peck! Mr. Peck!" The single voice of two children skipping and skidding down the path made him turn.

"Are you gonna go swimming with us?"

"Please? Will you?"

"Alright, two things," he started as they came closer and dropped their towels next to him, beside their mother's. "First, no. I am not going swimming. And second, how about you guys call me Face."

Heather raised a brow. "Face?" she asked, confused. Then she giggled. "That's a funny name."

"Heather!" James immediately corrected. "That's not nice!"

"Face is a nickname," he explained. "It's what all my friends call me."

"Mom doesn't call you that," Heather pointed out.

Face glanced out at the water and the woman who was wringing out her wet hair with her back to them. "Your mom is… different."

He took another drink.

"Are you and Mom gonna get married?"

And he choked.

"Hey guys!" Jessica attracted the twins' attention before he'd even stopped coughing. "Are you coming in or what?"

"We want Face to come with us!" Heather answered.

"What?" Jessica looked confused. Whether because she was too far away to hear or because she'd heard perfectly, Face wasn't sure. He was still trying to get the last of the Pepsi out of his lungs.

"Tell him to come swimming with us, Mom!"

"Yeah, he needs to come!"

"Nah," Jessica called back. "He's too chicken."

"That's me," Face called back, finishing the last few coughs. "Terrified of water."

One child had a hold of either arm and they were both trying to pull him to his feet. "Come on! Come swimming with us!"

"Yeah, come on!"

This was all very new to Face. He found himself sincerely wishing that BA was here. He'd always had a way with children. Maybe he would be able to convince them that swimming was not on Face's list of things to do after he'd just showered. But they were insistent, and he didn't know how to charm kids. That left him two options: give in or get angry, because they weren't going to give up.

First, he'd give the pleading one last ditch effort: logic. "Guys, I just took a shower," he tried. "I don't want to go in the muddy water."

"It's not muddy."

"Look, it's clean."

"Doesn't look that clean to me," Face protested. "Would you want to drink it?"

"Well, you're not going to drink it, silly, just swim in it!"

"If I drink some, will you go in?"

How could he argue with that?

With a deep sigh, he pulled his legs in a little and used them to push himself up. Whether the kids thought they had succeeded in pulling him to his feet against his will, he wasn't sure. In any case, they erupted into applause as he stripped off his shirt.

**1969**

Cruiser regarded Face out of the corner of his eye as he stripped his muddy, sweat-soaked shirt and stepped into the cool water of the running stream. He knew how stupid it was, even if there wasn't anyone around. But Hannibal had had enough of arguing with him for one day, and had eventually settled on, "If you get shot, I don't care." Cruiser had offered to stand guard while Face cooled off. Yes, it was dangerous. And Face insisted it was worth it. They hadn't seen action since they'd set down, and there was no reason to think there was a heavy concentration of enemy in the area. Nor had they found any of their supposed intel. Cruiser had a feeling that was a big part of the reason for the tension between the two officers, though he wasn't entirely sure why it mattered.

And he had bigger things to think about right now.

"Hey, Face?" Cruiser didn't look up as he spoke. He was leaning on the shoreline with a cigarette in one hand and Face's prisoner report in the other, his CAR-15 across his lap.

Face dipped down below the surface of the water briefly before he answered, getting his hair wet. Cruiser waited until he turned to make eye contact before he spoke.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Face chuckled at the surprise. Cruiser made no attempt to hide his shock that the kid would bring classified Agency documents out into the field.

"You could be court marshaled just for _having_ this, Face. Let alone if it fell into enemy hands. You brought highly classified documents out into the field? Are you insane?"

Face pushed his hair back with both hands before wading out of the water. As he pulled himself up beside Cruiser, he immediately reached for his clothes. "I totally believe we could pull it off," he said, ignoring the reaction entirely.

Cruiser stared at him. There was a light in his eyes - the one that only seemed to show when he was talking about doing something he _knew_ was going to get them in trouble. Cruiser had seen it before. Normally, it was enticing – Face was a hell of a lot more fun when he was looking for trouble than mourning his pitiful existence. But out here, that look was dangerous. Out here, looking for trouble was the same as looking to get _shot_. Or worse.

"Totally pull it off?" he repeated. He was wary, but kept his voice neutral. "Care to elaborate a bit?"

Face had been waiting for the opportunity. He suddenly looked like a kid on Christmas morning. "There's only six guards, we know exactly where they are. He was hearing air traffic from the camp so nobody is going to be all that surprised even if they _hear _us set down. If we go in maybe two clicks east of that camp, past the stream he talks about in there? We could probably attack with just the few of us – couple of Yards, maybe, but no big deal – and go right back _out _of the camp. 94 prisoners, Cruiser. Four _Americans_. Pick them up by chopper and take them home!"

Cruiser watched the energy and excitement with a sort of stunned amusement. He was really serious about this. Cruiser's own grin spread, but it had nothing to do with Face's plan. "Yeah?" Mocking enthusiasm laced his tone. "You talk to Hannibal about it?"

The lieutenant's face fell noticeably. "He was... less than enthusiastic."

Cruiser nodded, and his smile matched his tone. "That's because you're nuts, LT."

Face ignored him. "We don't have that much time! I mean, they know they've had an escape; if they move those prisoners or step up security while we're out here wandering the freakin' jungle in search of... empty bunkers and camps we _know_ have been abandoned..."

He trailed off, clearly irritated. Cruiser narrowed his eyes at him, not quite sure he even wanted to hear where this was going. "Are you suggesting we abandon this recon mission in favor of a 'flavor of the moment pet project' you just stumbled upon?" His tone was less amused than before.

"Flavor of the moment?" Face stared at him, stunned. "Cruiser, these are American prisoners! We know right where they are!"

"Yeah, I know that." His tone made it clear that such information was entirely inconsequential. He took a deep breath and handed the papers back to Face. "You shouldn't even have these out here. You have any idea what would happen if they got into the wrong hands?"

Face looked as if he'd just been struck. It took him a moment to find words. "You're missing the point, Cruiser."

"No," Cruiser answered firmly. "_You're _missing the point." He looked away. He couldn't believe he was actually having this conversation. "Don't get me wrong, Face. I'm all for saving every American we can. But we do things through Hannibal. End of story."

"Don't you get it?" Face's shock at being turned down turned to anger instantly. He folded the papers, shoving them back into his bag as he muttered under his breath. "Fuck. You're as bad as he is."

Cruiser's back straightened a bit at the tone. "Just exactly what is that supposed to mean?"

Face looked up and glared at him. "You don't. Fucking. Get it. We're wandering around out here and people are dying that we could get out of there! How would you feel in one of those camps, knowing that your people were more concerned about," he waved his hands, searching for an insult, but found none and merely spat his next words with contempt, "recon sweeps looking for information that may or may not be here?"

"Face." Cruiser's tone was sharper than he had expected. "I get it. But running off and doing whatever the hell you feel like isn't how this works. You want to do this, you take it Hannibal. I'll even fucking back you. But if you think for a moment that I'm going to go flying off the handle for something like this without his blessing, you have another thing coming."

"His _blessing_?" Face's tone was mocking. "We need his blessing to do our jobs?"

Cruiser raised his brow at that, wondering what exactly Face's malfunction was. "Yes, Face." He stared him down, his tone cold as he continued. "That is how it works."

Face growled audibly and looked away as he buttoned his shirt again. "Fuck. Forget it."

Cruiser watched him intently. When he said nothing more, Cruiser finally got up, turning back to him before he headed back to the camp that was only a few paces away. "Lieutenant." He searched for the right words, but couldn't really settle on anything. "Talk to Hannibal. But _don't _get your panties in a bunch and play me for a fool when you don't get your way. I don't know what kind of unit you came from, but here we have a chain of command. And if you can't handle _Hannibal's_ rules, I'm amazed you haven't found yourself on the receiving end of a court martial under someone else's rules."

Face's glare was bitter and penetrating. "Fuck you. Sergeant."

Cruiser shrugged it off. He wasn't looking for a fight. Especially when it wasn't his fight to begin with. He leaned back on a tree with a well practiced casual gaze as Face finished dressing, grabbed his pack, and shoved his way past Cruiser with a furious glare.


	11. Chapter Ten

**CHAPTER TEN**

"You want them to call you Face?" Jessica questioned, curious.

"I know it's good manners and all," he answered, "but Mr. Peck just makes me feel a little too old coming from a kid. At least on a regular basis."

"I'm just surprised you still use the name."

He glanced at her as he set the towel aside and sat back down on the rock he'd perched on earlier. The only difference now was that he was dripping wet. The kids were still splashing in the water, but both adults determined they'd had enough when their fingers had started to wrinkle.

"Why is that so surprising?"

She shrugged and wrapped her towel around her waist. "Well, it's just – Heather! Don't drown your brother!"

Face glanced out at the water and saw Heather looking very innocent as her brother sputtered and flailed, unable to touch bottom.

"It's just that with all the effort you've gone through to separate yourself from… all of that."

Face watched until he was sure the kid wasn't drowning, then looked back at Jessica. "I don't think about it like that," he said. "It's just my name."

"What about your real name?"

"What about it?"

"Isn't that more like who you are now?"

He frowned as he considered that. "Sometimes," he finally admitted.

"Only sometimes?"

He shrugged. "I guess it's sort of… who I would be if I wasn't who I am." His eyes flickered to her. "If that makes any sense at all."

"It does," she smiled quietly. "I just wonder how you feel about that."

He looked away again. "I learned a long time ago not to dwell on how you feel about things you can't change."

She chuckled. "Spoken like a true stoic."

Again, he shrugged. "I'm not a stoic." He flashed her a smile. "I'm a realist."

"A traumatized realist."

He shook his head as he looked away. "That's another thing I avoid."

"What is?"

"Victim mentality."

"Well, having a victim mentality and recognizing that something has changed inside of you are different, I think." She hesitated a moment before continuing. "The war changed me. I think it changed all of us."

Face considered that quietly as he watched the children splashing each other in the water. "The war didn't change me," he finally said quietly. "_I_ changed me. Lots of times. The war just showed me one more person that I didn't want to be."

He could feel Jessica's eyes on him, studying him carefully. "Have you ever figured out who you _do _want to be?" she asked. "Or are you still searching?"

He chuckled. "Well, I think there's an ideal and then there's a realistic. And like I said, I'm a realist."

She leaned back, smiling at him as she braced herself on her outstretched arms. "So is that a yes or a no, Mr. Templeton Face Peck? Or are there a few other names I should add in there, just for good measure?"

He smirked. "I could give you a hundred names and still only scratch the surface."

"That must be lonely."

He blinked, caught off guard by her conclusion. He'd never really thought of it like that. "It's… practical." He needed a change of topic. And fast. Words like "lonely" meant the conversation was getting a little too deep for his comfort.

"Have you thought at all about what you want to do? About the house, I mean."

She was quiet for a moment, lowering her head and running her fingers through her hair. It was a nervous habit, he was beginning to realize. "I don't know," she admitted. "I've got some money in savings. But… it's not enough to start all over again. And I'm not even sure insurance will cover… what happened to the house."

"Would you want to stay in LA? It might be safer for you to go somewhere else."

She sighed. "I don't know. I'd really hate to uproot the kids…" She shook her head, staring out over the water at the children. "God, I am _so _angry at him."

"Your brother?"

She nodded. "These kids didn't do anything wrong. They shouldn't have to suffer for his stupid mistakes." She lowered her head and finished in a whisper. "I still don't know what I'm going to tell them. They don't really understand…"

Face watched her as she hid her eyes with her hand, breathing deep in an attempt to control the urge to cry. Somewhere in a far corner of his mind, he realized that he wanted to help her. Whether or not there would be money in it depended on just how large and well-run this gambling ring was. But even if it paid next to nothing, they'd done more work for less. She was a friend, and that was worth something. The fact that she'd probably taken care of all of them at some point or another in Vietnam gave them a preexisting debt to her. And besides, the job probably wouldn't even require them to leave LA. Their expenses would be minimal. It was at least worth looking into.

"So tell me about this gambling ring," he invited, leaning back on his arms and letting the sun beat down on his shoulders and chest. They were going to burn if he stayed like this too long. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. Then they'd match his face and arms…

"What's to tell?" Jessica sighed. "My brother owes them a lot of money."

"How much?"

"I don't know. A lot."

"Well, they couldn't have let him play too much on credit."

"Oh, no. He was really good at coming up with collateral."

Face glanced at her questioningly.

She sighed. "He recently put the deed to my mother's house up as leverage. He told us afterwards."

Face blinked, surprised. "How did he do that without his name on it?"

"His name was on it," Jessica explained. "But not really. See, my brother was from Momma's first marriage. When the man died, he left everything to my brother. That's when he started gambling. He blew through the money and he needed more, so he sold the house to my mother. That's why she moved to LA. She wanted to buy it and he wanted to get rid of it."

"But didn't he sign the deed over to her?"

"Yes. But he had a duplicate. My guess is that he forgot he even had it or he probably would've used it earlier. When he found it again, he took it to the tables. Since it was a copy from before the house was sold, my mother's name wasn't on it anywhere. It looked legitimate."

Face nodded slowly. "A gambling ring where someone can bet a house is pretty big. Any idea who runs it?" People didn't gamble houses with a few of their closest friends.

"I don't know. I didn't ask. At first, I thought he was going to Vegas. But then I followed him one night to this little… hole in the wall bar. He came home the next morning with a Cadillac. But he lost it again three days later."

"So you know where this place is?"

"I couldn't draw a map, but I could find it again."

Face was at least vaguely aware of the fact that money on a gambling table could pay their way for a while. It could be a very lucrative job. And who knew how many people they would be helping in the meantime, in addition to Jessica.

He needed to talk to Hannibal.

**1969**

"Hello?" Hannibal leaned on the front desk of the Saigon hotel and carefully eyed the man who stood to greet him. "I'm Hannibal Smith. I was told there would be a letter here for me."

"Hannibal Smith," the young Vietnamese repeated with some difficulty. He looked on the desk in front of him, and in the slats on the wall behind. "No. There is no Hannibal Smith."

"What about John Smith?"

"Oh! John Smith I have!" Hannibal stood a little straighter as the man reached into one of the slats. "It not letter. Key." He handed the key over with a smile. "Room 214. Have a nice night."

Hannibal stared at the key for a long moment before turning toward the stairs and slowly climbing to the second floor. There was no one in the hallway, and the doors were all closed. He found the room he was looking for without difficulty, and readied his hand on his pistol as he slid the key into the lock. He had no reason to suspect a trap. He had no reason not to.

Inside, the room was dark, he stepped inside slowly, letting his eyes adjust. The light switch didn't work. He slid his gun out of its holster.

"You're getting paranoid, Colonel."

He spun. In the same instant, the bedside light flashed on, nearly blinding him. The fact that it was a female voice was the only thing that kept him from firing. As his eyes quickly adjusted, he put the gun away. "And you're getting more foolish by the day." He shut the door, and pulled the chain across. "I could've shot you."

"But you didn't," she pointed out.

"If I had, I might have some difficulty coming up with a reasonable explanation for how it happened."

The glass bottle on the dresser caught his eye, and he walked to it, inspecting it carefully. "You know…" The woman gave a deep, exaggerated sigh as she turned from her back to her stomach, lifting her head and crossing her arms underneath her. "It amazes me that the bottle of scotch on the dresser catches your attention more quickly than the naked woman on the bed."

Hannibal glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and smirked. "She caught my attention," he reassured her.

"Hmm. I wouldn't have guessed." Resting her head on her arms, she gave him a coy smile.

He set the bottle back down. "She might possibly explain, however, what on God's green earth she's doing in Saigon."

She gave a little shrug, not lifting her head. "I was the neighborhood."

"Elaine." The patience in his voice was deceptively calm and unemotional. "This isn't a neighborhood you just happen to be in." He stepped closer, standing over the bed. "This is Vietnam. And in case you didn't notice, there's a war going on. You shouldn't be here."

She turned again onto her back, arching a little in a seductive pose. "Is that your way of telling me you're not happy to see me?"

"No," he corrected with a polite smile. "It's my way of asking why you came all the way out here. As I can't imagine you did it just for me."

She smiled knowingly. "If I did," she whispered, "wouldn't you feel just awful for standing there and giving me the third degree?"

Hannibal studied her for a moment, standing still at the side of the bed, hands in his pockets. Realizing he had nothing to say, she sat up on her knees, hands reaching for the buttons on his jungle fatigues. He didn't stop her as she set about unfastening them. "Life is always so dull when you're not around," she pouted, raising her eyes to his. "It's just not the same. I miss you."

He stood passively, neither helping nor hindering her as she pushed his shirt back, off of his shoulders. "I'm quite sure you could find other… ventures that would retain your interest."

"Oh, but none quite so interesting as you." She set her hands on his shoulders. "I want you to tell me about your adventures, John," she whispered excitedly. "Tell me what this war is really like."

"It's hell," he answered simply, coldly.

She pouted, her lower lip protruding noticeably. "You say that. But then you stay. I hear you're on a voluntary indefinite status. Do you ever intend to come back to the States?"

"Of course. When the war is over."

"I don't think I can wait that long."

"Tell it to the Viet Cong."

Her fingers trailed up along either side of his neck, then down his jaw to his chin. He watched her, still passive, as she sat higher on her knees and came closer to kiss him. He didn't lean into her, but he returned the kiss, hands still in his pockets.

She was smiling as she pulled away from him. "I haven't been kissed like that in too long," she whispered.

"Oh?"

A deep, heartfelt sigh escaped her, and a childlike pout crossed her lips. "No man has made love to me in over two months."

He gave a brief laugh. "How fascinating. Seeing as I've not seen you in four, it would seem that your other ventures are working out well for you."

"Are you jealous?" she teased.

"Of you?" He laughed. Then he turned, and sat down on the bed next to her, reaching down to pull off his black boot.

"Well, you should be," she declared with a pouty smile. "You should be madly in love with me. And you should be hurried and… and in a frenzy for that moment when you'll throw me down on the bed and ravage me mercilessly. Just like old times."

He smiled as he glanced up at her. "I see you've already determined your plans for the evening."

"Our plans, love," she grinned, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

"Uh huh." He picked up the boots, and set them aside, tucking them under the bed. "Tell me," he glanced up at her quickly. "Does your husband know you're here?"

"Of course. He put me up in this nice little hotel." She smiled as she gestured around her. "It is nice, don't you think?"

"Oh, very nice," Hannibal smiled back. "But if he knows you're here, that means he could potentially come here to see you. In fact, he probably intends it. I wonder what would happen if he came through that door right now."

Her eyes danced. "It would be a very interesting conversation, don't you think?"

"Yes," he chuckled. "One that would probably end with me in prison."

She laughed. "For what?"

"Oh, I'm sure they could think of something."

Her laughter faded into a soft sigh as she leaned forward, holding the back of his head as she claimed his lips in a deep, passionate kiss. He remained still for a moment, but then slid one hand up to her neck, pushing her away slowly. She was smiling as she looked up at him again. "Don't worry about my husband," she whispered. "He is otherwise engaged. And he's not even here in Saigon."

He debated arguing with her, but only for the amount of time it took for her fingers to trail from his throat to the belt around his waist. A subtle touch, but one that was meant to melt him. And it did a surprisingly good job. "Two months," she repeated in a low whisper. Her eyes darkened as she reached up and touched his lips with the tips of her fingers. "How long has it been for you?"

Without a word, he slid his hand from her neck over her shoulder, and held her as he pushed her back onto the bed.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

Face looked around the camp before he jumped out of the back of the Huey. It was the home of A-346, just outside of Da Nang. For once, they actually were operating in South Vietnam, and far from the border of Cambodia. Face had never been here before, but he'd already been warned that the camp commander might not be too terribly thrilled to see them.

As the blades wound down, Face dropped out of the back of the chopper and slung his CAR-15 over his shoulder before opening the front for the pilot. "Doesn't look too hostile," Cruiser said, still optimistic.

"Don't be too sure," Hannibal warned, reaching into his pocket for a cigar.

"You know this guy?" BA asked, watching as Cruiser jumped to the ground.

The smirk on Hannibal's face made his answer clear. "You might say that."

Face rolled his eyes. "Oh, great. That's just what we need."

"No welcoming party at all, huh?" Cruiser observed, eyes scanning their surroundings – mapping the camp in his mind. It was a habit.

"Here comes a guy," Boston pointed. With his other hand, he was reaching for his cigarettes. He passed one into Face's outstretched hand before lighting his own.

Hannibal led the way as they met the shirtless American soldier halfway. "Colonel Smith?" the young man greeted.

"That's me."

"First Sergeant Tim Candelstein." They shook hands. "We've been expecting you."

The rest of the team hung back, weapons and packs over their shoulders, wary of the camp and its occupants. Hannibal had been a little too eager to come out here, and General Westman's warning hadn't escaped unnoticed.

"Where's the warm welcome?" Hannibal grinned, apparently enjoying the opportunity to antagonize the young soldier. "Don't tell me the colonel was too busy to come out and say hello."

Face and Cruiser exchanged glances. A mouthed, "Colonel?" from Cruiser received a shrug. Face, though briefed by Westman, hadn't heard much about this camp or its occupants. It was unusual, for sure, to find a colonel at an A-camp. But stranger things had happened. Hell, Hannibal was living proof.

"We had another patrol disappear last night," Candelstein explained. "He's organizing a team to go find them."

"I thought that's what we were here for," Hannibal pointed out, feigning offense.

"You'll have to excuse his… impatience." They followed a few steps behind the sergeant. "We're down thirty men and expecting an attack. He doesn't want to be caught off guard."

"Thirty men," Face repeated. "That's six teams. You've lost six teams in the past week?"

"You'd think he would've learned after the first two," Hannibal smirked.

His team exchanged glances amongst themselves, but all opted to stay quiet, following without a word through the camp and past a few of the CIDG soldiers before reaching the door of the TOC. Candelstein stepped inside first. "Colonel? General Westman's team is here."

The voice that answered was rough and gravelly. And hostile. "Show them where to put their stuff. I'll deal with them when I'm done here."

Hannibal didn't wait for the Sergeant to answer. He stepped forward, pushing the door open further. "Oh, come on now," he greeted. "That's no way to treat an old friend."

Realizing that Hannibal – and the entire team behind him – was within earshot helped to take some of the edge out of the camp commander's voice. When he spoke, it was with the reserved, formal politeness that any soldier could manage. "Colonel Smith."

Hannibal did not mimic the tone. He walked into the TOC as if he owned it, and greeted the other man with a smile. "I hear you got a problem."

"Nothing I can't handle."

Hannibal paused. "Well, that's not the impression that the general gave us."

Noting that no one else seemed in any hurry to get into the small building, Face passed through a gap between Boston and BA and stepped inside, immediately locating the camp commander at the map wall. He was about as old as Hannibal, maybe a little older. But he was thinner, more lanky where Hannibal's frame – from miles and miles of trekking through the jungle – was built and lined with muscle. Which was not to say that the other man was out of shape.

"Lieutenant Templeton Peck," Face introduced as he stepped forward to shake hands with the older man. "Any idea what we're dealing with here? Where they're operating out of?"

The colonel's eyes narrowed as he looked the younger man up and down in a blatant, scrutinizing appraisal. Face waited several full seconds before he realized that he wasn't going to shake the hand that was extended to him. Instead, he addressed Hannibal.

"Let's get one thing straight, Smith," he shot. "I didn't ask for you to be here. This is my camp and while you're here, you'll do things my way. Do I make myself clear?"

Face took a step back, glancing at Hannibal to see his smile firmly in place. "Clear as mud. Now." He looked back at the Sergeant in the doorway. "Where can we set up shop?"

As Face followed them out of the room and across the camp, he took a few extra strides to catch up with Hannibal. "What the hell is his problem?" he asked. Then he quickly thought better of it. "Never mind. I don't want to know." He had a better question, anyways. "What the hell is his name?"

"His name is Decker," Hannibal explained with a grin. "We went to West Point together. And we've been playing tag ever since."

"Oh. Great." Face couldn't quite muster up enthusiasm at the idea of working with an old "friend" of Hannibal's.

"Roderick Decker?" Cruiser asked.

Hannibal grinned. "The same."

Cruiser rolled his eyes. "Aw, shit, I've heard of him. He's in demo, isn't he?"

"Large scale," Hannibal nodded, still smiling.

Boston chuckled, and clapped a hand over Face's shoulder. "And here you thought you were going to be bored out here."

Face shook his head, shifting his pack over his shoulder. "Not really. That was just wishful thinking."

**1978**

"I'm bored."

"Me too."

It was too hot for a campfire and too cold for swimming. Too late for wandering away from the camp and too early for bed. The sun was gradually descending toward western horizon. Both kids were too wound up to sit down with a book and relax until bedtime. All three adults were too tired to do anything but.

"Hey, I got an idea!"

"What?"

"Let's play tag!"

Face listened to the conversation with his eyes closed, lying in the hammock stretched between two trees and feigning sleep.

"It's too hot for tag."

"Mmm… How 'bout we play catch?"

"We don't have a ball."

"I've got my football."

"Football is a boy's game."

Face couldn't help a slight smile.

"So?"

"So, I'm not a boy."

"You don't have to be a boy to play football."

"Ladies do _not _play football, James."

A huff answered her. "Well, what do you want to do?"

"I don't know." A long pause. "We could play hide and go seek…"

"Hey, yeah! Hide and go seek would be fun here!"

"Yeah!"

"Can we play hide and go seek, Mom?"

"We won't go far, we promise!"

"We'll come right back if you whistle."

Jessica hesitated a moment before answering them. "If you two are going to play hide and go seek, you should talk Face into going with you."

He could've killed her right then and there.

"Face! Hey, Face, will you play with us?"

"Yeah, come on! It'll be fun!"

He could feign sleep only until they started rocking the hammock. Then he had to respond. He shot a brief glare at Jessica first. She was smirking at him. "I can't play hide and go seek with you," he protested.

"Why not?"

"We'll teach you how!"

"No, it's not that." He'd better come up with a good excuse, very fast. "I hurt my foot earlier and I –"

They didn't even let him finish. "You don't have to use your foot!" One child grabbed each hand and pulled so hard and so suddenly that the hammock turned over. It was all he could do to keep from falling on top of them as he crashed to the ground. The kids both laughed hysterically as they danced back.

"Face! Face, are you alright?" Heather giggled. "Come on, get up!"

"We'll help you!"

They had a hold of his arms again. He shot another glare at Jessica, who was hiding a smile. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" he asked with a touch of sarcasm. He _knew _she was enjoying it.

"I'll be it," James offered. "You two go hide."

"No, guys, really," Face said. "I really can't play."

"Aw, why not?"

"Because I'm too good at it. It wouldn't be fair." That, at least, was a hundred percent truth.

"I have an idea for how we can make it fair," Jessica offered.

Again, he found himself amused with thoughts of her demise.

"If you guys find Face," she said to the children, "all you have to do is see him. But if he's got to find you, he actually has to come up and touch you and you can't hear him coming."

Face rolled his eyes. "Gee, thanks, Jess."

"And you play two against one," she continued, smiling. Both of you look for him when it's his turn to hide and both of you hide when it's his turn to look."

James frowned. "That doesn't sound fair."

"Oh, trust me," Jessica grinned, "it's fair."

James looked up at Face, still holding onto his forearm. "Is it fair, Face? Do you think it's fair?"

He sighed deeply, and resigned himself to a game of hide and go seek. "It's fair," he agreed.

"Yay!"

"You go hide first then!" Heather instructed, pushing him away before they both turned to face the tree. "We'll count to fifty."

"Twenty's fine," Face said. Actually, ten would've sufficed.

"Really?"

"Okay, but you'll have to count to fifty when it's our turn."

He nodded in agreement and both children turned to face the tree, covering their eyes. "Oooone… twoooo…"

He paused just briefly at Jessica's chair to lean down and whisper into her ear. "You realize this means I'll have plenty of time hiding up in a tree somewhere to decide how to get even with you."

She smiled broadly as she reached up and patted his arm. "Don't underestimate my kids, Templeton. They're pretty good at hide and go seek."

"Three… four…"

He didn't bother answering her as he disappeared into the trees.

**1969**

Two minutes from the camp, Face had already noticed a problem with the team's stealth skills. Every time they took a step, leaves rustled and twigs broke under the feet of Decker's volunteers. Ahead of the rest of the bulk of the team, Face and Cruiser exchanged worried looks. Then Face turned back. "Hey, guys?"

The three CIDG and two Americans paused, eyes on him.

"You wanna keep it down?" he hissed. "You're gonna get us shot."

Bewildered looks and whispered apologies, and Face shook his head as he turned back. "Tell me again," Cruiser mumbled under his breath, "why did they have to come with us?"

"Because they know the area," Face whispered back. "At least, they should."

A clicking sound ahead made both Face and Cruiser's head snap up. A signal for danger. Scanning the trees, Face saw nothing. That didn't mean there was nothing. He gestured to the line behind him, a signal to disperse and hide, and shut his eyes in anger and disgust at the loud rustling sound they made as they ducked off the path.

"Who the fuck trained these idiots?" Cruiser hissed.

"Not now. Go."

Cruiser and Face parted ways, but stayed close enough to signal audibly over the rattling sound of the insects. Pressed low against the ground, Face scanned the shadows of the thick foliage around him. Nothing moved. At least they knew how to hide.

Minutes passed. Face breathed slow. It was a waiting game. Until he heard otherwise from Hannibal or BA – who'd called back the original signal – he stayed put. Finally, a rustling sound, muffled voices. Face pressed lower to the ground, training his weapon in the direction of the sound. Five VC, walking right toward him.

A shrill sound made the men stop suddenly and scan their surroundings. It could've been a bird, or a screeching insect. Face knew better. He waited for the men to lower their guns before answering with the same whistle, and two clicks.

The men were nervous, on edge. But they walked forward, scanning the trees. As they within feet of where Face was lying flat, he set his gun carefully beside him, put his hands underneath him, and signaled again.

The sound of gunshots was instantaneous. So was Face's movement. Almost before their fingers had found the triggers of their AKs, four of them were lying bleeding and Face stood behind the fifth with a blade against his throat.

"Here's an English lesson for you," he hissed, pressing the knife harder against the man's skin until he felt hot, sticky blood trickle down onto his fingers. "Make one move and you're breathing through your neck. _Comprende_?"

**1978**

The first round of hide and go seek went quickly. He was wearing a blue shirt and even in the dim light it was still easy to spot. And he was in bushes, nowhere that should've taken them hours to find him. He'd found them relatively quickly, too - and scared the living daylights out of them both when he'd unexpectedly grabbed their shoulders.

He didn't really have any interest in playing another round. But a statement something to the effect of "He's not _that _good at it," had nevertheless settled for him that not only would he play round two, but he'd find someplace comfortable to hide. Maybe he'd stay there for the night because they sure as hell wouldn't find him a second time.

He was only about thirty feet from the camp, but he was also twenty feet up in a tree. If they were looking for the blue shirt, they wouldn't find it. He'd taken it off and it was underneath him, cushioning the wide tree limb. For lack of jungle fatigues and grease paint, he'd settled for mud and twigs. He was going to need a shower anyways; he might as well give these kids a run for their money. They'd looked right at him twice and didn't see him. He decided to take a nap.

It was dark when he opened his eyes again. In the flickering light from a campfire, two children stood at the edge of the camp with their hands cupped over their mouths, calling into the trees. "Face!"

"Face, we give up!"

"Are you there?"

"Face, are you okay?"

He sat forward a little and stretched. The tree wasn't the most comfortable place in the world, but he'd slept in worse. "You mean you can't find me?" he called back.

Both children turned to look at each other. "Where are you?" Heather called.

"You're not hurt, are you?"

He chuckled. "No, I'm not hurt. Why don't you try following the sound of my voice? Grab your flashlights first."

"Mom?"

She came closer, resting a hand on each of their shoulders as she too peered into the darkness.

"It's okay, Jess," he assured. "I can see them from where I'm at."

"Okay, be careful," she said, handing a flashlight to each of them.

As they stumbled into the woods, Face watched the flashlight beams head off in the wrong direction. "You're getting colder," he called.

Both beams shot immediately back toward him. "Warmer. Watch where you're going; there's thorns down there."

Very slowly, the children picked their way through the brush. "Warmer… warmer… colder…"

They followed directions right to the base of the tree, looked up, and still didn't see him until he waved. Heather shrieked in surprise. "Mom! Mom! Look at Face!" James called back. "Look! He's up in the tree!"

Blinded by two flashlight beams, he shielded his eyes. "Okay, get the flashlights out of my face," he said. "Give me a minute to get down."

It only took him a few seconds to scale down the tree. As he landed, he brushed away the dirt that had dried to his chest and arms. "You're all dirty."

"No kidding." He ruffled the kid's hair as he headed toward the camp. "Come on."

"Hey, Face?"

"Yeah?"

He glanced back and saw two very sincere looks staring back at him in the dim shadows from the flashlights. "We were wrong."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're _very _good at this game."

He laughed.

**1969**

Face could tell that Boston was trying very hard to ignore the screams from inside the building as he finished his fifth cigarette and chained to a sixth. "You know," he breathed deep as he flicked a glance back to the doorway, "I'm so crazy about what's going on in there."

"Hannibal's in there. If it makes you feel any better."

"Should it?"

Face smirked. "You trust Hannibal, remember?" It was amusing to have to remind Boston of that fact. "He won't let it get too out of hand."

Boston frowned. "I'd say it's already getting a little out of hand."

"The man knows what he's doing."

"Which man would that be? Hannibal? Or Decker?"

"Actually, I meant the interrogator."

"Who works for Decker," Boston reminded him uneasily. "Whom I don't particularly trust."

Face didn't answer.

A few seconds of uneasy silence later, Hannibal stepped out of the room. The look on his face was void of emotion, ice cold. "Where's Cruiser and BA?"

"Sleeping," Face answered, rising to his feet.

"I sure hope that accomplished something," Boston sighed, standing up next to Face.

"It did," Hannibal assured. "Face, you and Cruiser are going with Decker and a couple of the CIDG. Boston, BA and I will take another team. There's two camps within ten miles of here. Our men could be at either one."

"Ten miles," Boston repeated, sounding concerned. "Are we going to walk that?"

"How did Decker not know that there were two camps within ten miles of him?" Face demanded, not waiting for an answer to Boston's question.

"He's only been here a week," Hannibal answered. "This camp has had a lot of problems – not least of which would be the last commander." He glanced at Boston. "And no, we're not walking."

Boston nodded. "I'll go get our pilot," he said, heading in the direction of the team room.

"So what you're telling me, then, is that they sent Decker out here to clean up," Face continued, ignoring Boston. "And his way of cleaning out was to send out patrols who didn't know what they were doing."

"Basically. Yeah."

"You got any idea how much noise they were making out there?"

"I do," Hannibal nodded. "Which is why you're taking Decker with you."

Face frowned as he followed a half-step behind Hannibal, towards the barracks. "Meaning what, exactly?"

"The closer of the two camps is less than two miles. If you want the element of surprise, you're going on the ground."

"What does that have to do with Decker?"

"He did a few drops with a Hatchet Force, Face. He's your best man out here."

Face stopped walking. "Hannibal?"

A few steps ahead, Hannibal paused and looked back. "What?"

Face was worried. He didn't try to hide it. "Do you trust this guy on the ground? Really?"

Hannibal hesitated for a long moment, then sighed. He knew Face would take his word for it, whatever he told him. If Decker was good on the ground, Face would trust him just as if he were part of the team. If he wasn't, Face would be on his guard.

"I don't know," Hannibal admitted. "Based on what I've seen here… he either didn't know what he was getting into, or he's cleaning house the old fashioned way. But neither says anything about his recon skills."

Face's eyes widened at the implication that any CO would knowingly send his men to their deaths. "He would do that?"

"I don't put anything past him," Hannibal said flatly. "And you shouldn't either."

Face was almost too stunned to speak. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"He'll get the job done at all costs. He's known for it."

"Look, if he's the best guy here and you can't trust him implicitly, then why the hell are we splitting up?" Face shook his head. "You want the four of us to take two camps at the same time? And re-teach these guys everything they've apparently forgotten about recon while we're at it?"

Hannibal sighed. "Listen. There's a very good chance that our men are not alive."

"Then that's all the more reason why we shouldn't be splitting up."

"But what if they are?"

Face looked away with a sigh. "And what if we find them and don't have the manpower to get them out?"

"Decker's good for that."

Face glanced back up at him, skeptical. "He's just not good for doing it quietly?" he assumed, his voice tainted with sarcasm.

"He's a good soldier, Face. Even if I don't exactly care for the way he does things, he's still good."

"Look, I don't care what kind of history you have with him," Face sighed. "I don't care what kind of a person he is. I don't care if you like him or if you don't. What I care about is that I got five hundred yards away from this camp and I was ready to tell his men to turn their asses right back around. Because they were putting us in more danger than they were worth. Personally, I'd like to be working with someone who knows what they're doing on the other side of the wire. And if that someone isn't Decker, then I'm not taking him."

The look on Hannibal's face was emotionless as he sighed once more. "You're taking him, Lieutenant," he said plainly. "If you choose to take anyone else, that's up to you."

Face stood still, eyes sliding closed as Hannibal turned away. "He's got your coordinates," he called over his shoulder. "Good luck."


	13. Chapter Twelve

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

"That's the little camp?" Cruiser whispered, stunned.

"I never said it was little," Decker hissed back.

"You never said it was full of civilians, either," Face said flatly. "That's not just a camp, it's a whole village. And those aren't all soldiers."

"Actually," Cruiser observed, "it looks like they just… moved right into the village."

"Far as I'm concerned," Decker growled, "that's an enemy base and the people in it are the enemy."

Cruiser hesitated. "Actually, he's probably right. Most of them are probably VC."

Face frowned as he traced the dirt road as far as he could see it. The structure and repair of the buildings told him that it had been a Montagnard village not long ago. There were other, more sophisticated structures now, too – hastily constructed, but with supplies shipped from somewhere else. There were no surrounding rice paddies either, and the little gardens near the houses were not enough to feed as many people as were on the street. They were importing food.

"What I wanna know," Face said, casting a cold look in Decker's direction, "is how the hell your men didn't know about this."

"What I wanna know is what we're gonna do about it," Cruiser sighed, moving back.

With a deep sigh, Face turned and put his back up against the tree nearest him, reaching for water from his pack. "What is that village?" Face asked, keeping one eye on Decker as he glanced at the two Yards who'd come with them. "Or what was it before the VC took it over?"

One of the men shook his head. "It not there six months ago."

"Not three months ago," the other added.

Face tipped his head to look at the village through the slit in the leafy branches. "Then why's it there now?"

"Does it matter?" Decker challenged.

Face sighed. "Of course it matters. It makes a big difference for who's in that camp."

"You want me to go around?" Cruiser asked. "Get the layout?"

Face glanced at him, and considered it for a long moment. Looking once again through the leaves, he shook his head. "Our men aren't in there," he said quietly. "There's no way they'd keep them in such an unprotected area. If we were miles from nowhere then yeah, sure. But not this close to an American camp. If they made a break into the jungle, they could very well find help before they were caught." He looked up at Cruiser. "No to mention, anybody could walk into a village like that. They're not even set up to do battle."

Cruiser grinned. "So are we gonna walk in?"

A slight smirk crossed Face's lips. "Hannibal would."

"But would you?"

Face looked again at the village. Only a few of the men in the street wore NVA uniforms. For there to be any at all, they had clearly seized control of the village. But they hadn't burned it; they'd commandeered it. Maybe because it was so close to A-346. They had a reason for setting up there, and for not fortifying it like a camp. But it wasn't to hold American prisoners.

"They're not in there," Face said again. "And there's no way the five of us will take that place. At least not without killing a lot of civilians. It's not worth it. We'll come back and deal with it later – when there's more of us."

As Cruiser reflected on the merits of raiding the village, Decker shrugged his shoulders out of his pack. Face took one glance at the determined look on his face and knew the situation was about to get a little sticky.

"What are you doing?" he asked, as unassumingly as possible while he watched Decker empty his pack of claymores. The man had enough C-4 to level that entire village. It was slightly disturbing to Face that he'd thought to bring it with him – and to bring that much.

"I didn't come all this way to sit here and look at the target, then turn around and go home."

Face set his jaw. "What target?" he demanded. "Those are civilians."

"I see NVA uniforms in an enemy camp."

Face's eyes narrowed. "And I see women and children in a Montagnard village. You wanna talk technicalities?"

"I'm not going to debate this with you, Lieutenant!" Decker spat Face's rank with enough contempt to make his intentions perfectly clear. He was no longer taking orders. He turned and glared at the two Yards as he gathered his charges, replacing them in the most easily accessible places in his pouch. "You two come with me."

Cruiser's jaw was dropped as he watched Decker and the two Yards head away. Then he turned and stared at Face, stunned. "What the fuck is he doing?"

"I don't know," Face answered quietly. Actually, he had a pretty good idea. He put his water back in his pack before pushing off the tree, following Decker. "Come on."

Decker opted for speed over stealth. By the time Face and Cruiser reached the place where he'd left his pack – minus the claymores – he and the two Yards were across the row of gardens and between the buildings. Cruiser stared, jaw dropped.

"What the hell is he doing?"

"He's blowing up their munitions," Face guessed.

"No, he's not. Their munitions are on the other end."

Face looked toward the small buildings furthest east. They were indistinguishable. "How do you know?"

"Because one of them opened the door when we were back in the other area," Cruiser answered. "Everything's stacked in plain sight."

"Maybe he doesn't know that," Face suggested, watching as Decker slipped out of view.

Cruiser paused for a moment. "Or maybe he's just blowing up the biggest building he can find."

It only took Face a second to find the biggest building in the little village. He frowned deeply. "That's a hospital."

Cruiser hesitated. "He wouldn't…"

Face slipped his shoulders out of his pack. "Hannibal said not to put anything past him."

"What? Where are you going?" Cruiser demanded as Face wrapped the CAR-15's strap around his arm.

"To stop him."

"What! Face, you're crazy!"

"If he's going to –"

"Face!" Cruiser hissed, grabbing onto his arm to stop him. Face looked back at him and he shook his head. "He wouldn't do it. And besides, how the hell are you gonna stop him? Those are VC in there, man. You know, the bad guys? The ones with the guns who'll shoot you if they see you? You gonna argue with Decker in the middle of their camp?"

Face studied him for a long moment, then settled back down into the tall grass, watching the village silently. It was several long, agonizing minutes later that Decker reappeared, both CIDG with him, and crossed back into the overgrown jungle.

"Let's go," Decker ordered quickly.

"What did you do?" Face demanded.

Ignoring him, Decker slipped his arms into his pack. The charges were all missing. They were in the village.

"Colonel –"

The explosion was big enough to shake the ground. Acting on instinct, Face and Cruiser both hit the dirt. When they looked up again, Decker and the two Yards were already heading away at a brisk pace. Face looked back just in time to see the largest building in the village crumble, amidst the screams and indistinguishable cries coming from the village. Cruiser sprang to his feet. Face spent a moment longer just staring at the dust and smoke, and the people running to and from the collapsed, burning building.

Decker was already a good twenty yards away when Face got to his feet. Cruiser had a head start. "What the fuck was that!" he demanded, stunned and horrified.

"I believe that was the sound of a _civilian_ hospital blowing up," Face answered as he caught up with them, emphasizing the "civilian" part.

Cruiser stepped in front of Decker. "A hospital? You blew up a fucking hospital?"

"Out of my way, Sergeant," Decker growled as he pushed past.

Cruiser reacted without thinking. With one arm to hold Decker's throat, he slammed him against the nearest tree. "I asked you a question. Sir!"

Decker's knife on Cruiser's ribs was instantly met by Cruiser's pistol on Decker's chest. Their reflexes matched perfectly. Face's grip instinctively tightened around his weapon. There was no question in his mind where his loyalties lie. He didn't have to think about it. His eyes remained locked on Decker as the colonel smirked.

"You gonna shoot me, boy?" he challenged.

"Give me a reason," Cruiser snarled back.

"What're you gonna tell the court martial?"

"I'll think of something."

For a long moment, they stared each other down. Finally, Face's hand on Cruiser's shoulder made him take a step back, lowering the weapon. He glared at the colonel as he replaced it in his holster. "We need to get out of here," Face said quietly. "They're going to be swarming this area, looking for whoever set off those charges."

"No shit," Cruiser growled. He glared at Decker. "That's why you wait until you're away from the enemy camp to blow shit up. Except that wasn't an enemy camp. It was a village with a civilian hospital!"

"Run by the Viet Cong," Decker growled.

Cruiser clenched his teeth. "It. Was. A hospital!"

"Colonel!" The Yard's voice startled Face, but he didn't take his eyes off of Decker.

With one last, lingering glare, Decker walked past Cruiser. For a long moment, Cruiser didn't move. Face watched him, and took a step closer. "Just relax, Cruiser."

"He blew up a hospital!"

"And we couldn't have stopped him, remember?" Face put a hand on Cruiser's shoulder. "Let's just get the hell out of here, huh?"

Cruiser's eyes slid closed and he swallowed hard, but managed a slight nod. Face held his shoulder as he walked past, turning him in the direction that Decker had headed.

"We need to go." Face climbed over a fallen tree, coming closer to where Decker was standing. "It's not safe here."

"It's not safe anywhere," Decker growled back.

"Uh huh," Face sighed. "So can we just head back to camp and be unsafe there?"

Cruiser caught up and stood beside Face. "Unless, of course, you've got some more civilians to kill," he snapped.

"There's no civilians here," Decker snarled, lifting his rifle and pointing it through the trees. "There's just us…" Face followed his line of sight, through the trees and down the hill, into the muddy stream below. "… and them."

The muddy stream with the children playing in it.

"No!"

**1978**

Jessica was playing in the water again, down at the beach a hundred yards from the showers. "Why do you do that?" Face asked, curious.

"Do what?"

"Walk in the water." He glanced up at the road they'd detoured from, then down the empty beach.

She smiled. "I grew up on a beach," she answered. "Just a little one, on a little lake, but it was where I spent all my time. I guess the water reminds me of home."

He nodded. It was as good an explanation as any.

"Don't you have anything like that?" she asked. "Something that reminds you of being a kid?"

He considered the question, and shrugged. "Not particularly. The church, I guess, but…"

She glanced up at him as he trailed off. While she walked in circles in the calm water, he was sitting on the sand, legs crossed and hands folded in his lap. "The church?" she asked.

"I was raised in a Catholic home." He didn't feel it necessary to further define "home" or to explain just how Catholic it had been.

She chuckled. "Really? I never would've guessed."

He smirked. "I never said I was a _good _Catholic."

"Clearly."

She stepped back, deeper and deeper into the water. "You're going to stain your clothes," he warned.

She shrugged. "So? The water's nice. Throw me the shampoo and I'll just skip the shower altogether."

"You're kidding, right?"

"I've bathed in worse. So have you, for that matter."

She was right about that.

He watched her for a few minutes as she waded and splashed and finally emerged dripping wet. She had her bathing suit on beneath her white T-shirt and cutoff shorts, and the top was plainly visible. He eyed her appreciatively as she came closer.

"Ready now?" he asked, feigning impatience. She kicked water at him and he flinched, surprised. "Hey! What was that for?"

"Aw, what's the matter, Templeton? Still worried about your clothes?"

He was already filthy. If he'd ever been worried about these clothes, he'd stopped worrying about them before he rubbed mud all over them. "No," he answered.

"So what's your excuse this time?" Another splash of water hit him right in the chest and he debated for a moment how he wanted to proceed. She wasn't being aggressive. By all indications, she seemed almost playful. And they both knew he couldn't get much dirtier.

"Do I need an excuse?" he asked.

"I would expect you to have one ready to roll off your tongue."

Another splash. He gave her a challenging look – a glare mixed with a smile – and braced himself on the ground with his hands behind him. "Knock it off…"

"Or else what?"

That childlike innocence suited her. She looked just like a middle school kid flirting with a crush. But this kind of innocent flirting was something he hadn't done in so long, it felt almost awkward. One more splash of water into his face and he suddenly launched up off the sand. She turned and bolted with a shriek the instant he moved. But even with a head start, she didn't get far. She ran through the water and he ran on the sand, and he was probably faster to begin with.

He kicked off his sandals as he bounded the few steps into the water, caught her around the waist, and took her right off her feet. She shrieked again, surprised, as he threw her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, dragging her out deeper into the water. He only made it up to his waist before he lost his footing and plunged down into the water, dragging her down with him. She was laughing hysterically as he surfaced, barely able to regain his stance before she shoved him hard and he fell back again. This time, he pulled her legs out from under her before he resurfaced.

They spent several minutes splashing and dunking each other before they finally washed up on shore. There, lying on the sand, he found himself kissing her. Startled, he pulled back abruptly, pushing himself up and away from her.

What on God's green earth was he doing? Had he lost his mind?

"What's wrong?"

Her voice sounded foreign, somehow distant. His mind was swirling around too many other things to really hear her. "Sorry," he apologized quickly.

Why was he apologizing?

"For what?"

Physical attraction, nothing more. He wouldn't allow her to think that it was anything more than that. By the look she was giving him, she could too easily believe that it was something more.

"Uh, well, you said before… and I just…" He gestured away the rest of the sentence, dismissively. She could fill in the blanks with whatever words she chose. He was being respectful, or understanding, or considerate. The truth was simpler. She was definitely going to get the wrong idea if he let that happen again. He had way too much history with her. And he did _not _want her latching onto him. That was the last thing he needed.

He had to be out of his goddamn mind.

"We should –"

"Face…"

His name on her lips, a low whisper that he could barely even hear, cut off his protest. He looked back at her and saw that she'd sat up. With her legs still out in front of her, she held her weight on one arm as she reached her other hand up to touch his cheek. The swirl of sensation elicited by the simple caress startled him, and he pulled away. Forcefully. This was not going to happen. Not a chance in hell.

"Come on." He rose to his feet and offered a hand down to her. "Your mother is going to worry. And we still have to shower."

**1969**

Face stood silent in the hotel room shower, hands forward on the tile wall as the cold water ran through his hair and over his face, washing away the heat and the layers of dirt and sweat that had been accumulating for days. They hadn't been able to get out of the camp fast enough for his liking and thankfully, Hannibal hadn't asked questions. They were out of the camp within ten minutes of their return.

Da Nang was the closest place to find a bed for the night. Cruiser had immediately gone out. He hadn't specified where, but Face had a feeling it would not be the officer's club. He'd be in the bar in town - the one with the particularly young whores. And he would probably drink himself into a coma by morning.

He hadn't asked for company, and Face wouldn't have been very good company anyways. At the moment, he had too many other thoughts on his mind. The last place he wanted to be right now was in a bar.

He didn't hear the door open. The first indication that he wasn't alone was the sound of Hannibal's voice. "Westman wants to know why Colonel Decker's going up the chain of command about you."

Face dropped his head forward, closing his eyes.

"And I'd like to know why we were in such a hurry to get out of that camp."

"Can we not do this right now?" Face pleaded.

"What's the matter, Lieutenant?" That tone, almost playful, made it clear that Hannibal was not unhappy about leaving Decker's camp ahead of schedule. "Am I interrupting you?"

"As a matter of fact," he turned his head away from the shower spray, "I'm in the shower and I'm having a private moment. Get out."

Hannibal chuckled. "Sure you are."

He didn't leave. Face hadn't expected him to.

Face sighed and ran his hands through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Decker opened fire on a bunch of kids playing in a creek," he stated. "And I lost it. The two Yards had to pull me off of him."

"Where was Cruiser?"

"Cruiser was ready to put a bullet in him before that even happened."

"Why?"

"Because he blew up a hospital!" Face could feel his blood pressure rising as his calm slipped through his fingers. "That camp we went to? It was actually a village that the VC took over. There were still civilians there. There was no way in hell they were keeping POWs there, but he wouldn't turn back. And he blew up the goddamn hospital!"

Hannibal didn't answer. Face ground his fist against the tile. He wanted to hit something. But if he hit this wall, probably hit it hard enough to break his hand. "It didn't have a damn thing to do with his men," Face growled. "He just wanted to kill. And when he shot those kids…"

Hannibal was quiet. Face took a few deep, calming breaths, letting the water cool his head. His skin was flushed again with the hot anger. "We both," he finally started again, pausing at every few words for a slow, calming breath, "told him, in no uncertain terms, to go to hell. And he probably will file charges. And I don't even fucking care."

"Did you hit him?"

"Cruiser pulled a gun on him."

"Did you hit him?"

Face swallowed, and shut his eyes as he took a deep breath. "I tried. I didn't really have a chance," he said quietly. "I went for his gun. Tried to stop him." His eyes drifted down to the burn marks on his palm where he'd held the barrel while it fired.

"Well, you did the right thing as far as I'm concerned."

"He's gonna file charges. There's no doubt in my mind."

"I don't think so."

"He will, Hannibal."

"No. He won't. Because he doesn't want to face his own trial."

"He needs to," Face whispered. "He needs to get the hell out of Vietnam. I'm all for killing anyone who gets in my way. But those kids weren't in anyone's way. He just doesn't even see human beings anymore. Just target practice."

"Vietnam didn't do that to him," Hannibal corrected quietly, almost sadly. "He's always been that way. He gets the job done, come hell or high water." He paused, and made a sound almost like a laugh. "Kinda like me."

Face glared at the tile wall. "You ever blow up a fucking hospital, Hannibal, I'm layin' your ass out. Commanding officer or no."

"He's here in Da Nang, you know."

The sudden change of topic caught Face off guard. As he slowly processed the words, he laughed, without humor. "Shit, that didn't take long."

"He'll go see Sandgone tomorrow afternoon. Westman's already heard that something's going on. I told him I would call him in the morning once I heard the story of what happened out there. He was more than a little curious."

Tired of the shower, Face turned off the water and ran his hands over his hair, wringing it out. "Well, I guess you can tell him that I very politely and respectfully told Decker to shove his rank up his ass."

Hannibal chuckled, and paused for a long moment. "You want to go with me to the DOOM club?"

"If I wanted to drink, I'd be plastered already."

"I'm not going there to drink."

Face froze as he realized what the colonel was implying, and stared for a moment at the opaque shower door before pushing it open and stepping half-out, just enough to look at him. Hannibal was leaning against the sink in clean civilian clothes, arms crossed, with a thoughtful look on his face.

"You're fucking serious?" Face asked incredulously.

Hannibal smiled and shrugged. "No sense in involving Westman if we can just… work this out amongst ourselves."

Face continued to stare at him as he grabbed a towel off the wall and wrapped it around his waist. Finally, he shook his head, sighing as he passed Hannibal, out into the room. "Shit, Hannibal, that's all I need."

"So that's a yes?"

Face looked back, and Hannibal smiled wickedly.

There were no words exchanged as Hannibal, Face, and Cruiser stepped through the door of the Da Nang Officer's Open Mess. Two steps into the room, Hannibal located Decker. Five more steps and he took him by the shoulder, turned him around, and put his fist right through the bridge of his nose. Startled officers in fatigues and civilian clothes alike jumped back as Decker crashed onto the table he'd been sitting at. It gave way under his sudden weight, spilling beer and booze all over him, the floor, and the officers' shoes.

Face watched, a step behind Hannibal, for which of them would be the first to come to Decker's aid. He had to have some friends here, after all. It didn't take long. Fist pulled back, Face stepped between Hannibal and one of the men who'd been sitting with Decker. Cruiser was on his other side in a similar posture.

Still stunned, and gushing blood from his badly-broken nose, it took Decker a few seconds to figure out that he needed to stand back up. But before he could manage it, Hannibal had him pinned to the floor by his throat. As the two men engaged with Face and Cruiser fell back – one unconscious and the other bleeding almost as badly as Decker – Hannibal's team readied for more. Cruiser used his sleeve to wipe away the blood from his mouth as Face glanced around quickly to see if anyone else would dare to step up. The entire bar full of soldiers stared, wide-eyed, but no one moved. Finally, both men looked down at Decker.

Hannibal had one knee on his chest, and a hand around his throat. Still stunned - and slightly drunk, by the looks of it - Decker struggled in vain as Hannibal leaned down to hold a very private, very serious conversation.

"You file charges," he whispered, "on me or any one of my men, and I will personally see to it that you face a firing squad for what you did to those civilians."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Decker managed, coughing on the blood running down the back of his throat.

Hannibal slammed Decker's head back once more on the broken table. "Do _not _fuck with me, Decker!" Glaring down at him, he slowly rose to his feet. "You don't want me gunning for you. Not here. Not now. You just stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours."

"I never asked for you to interfere in my business in the first place."

"Well, you'd better pray to God that nobody ever finds it necessary to send me out here to fix your mess again anytime in the future. 'Cause the next time I see you, Decker? We'll see who gets the last word."

Neither of them spoke as they glared at each other for a long moment. Then Hannibal turned and headed for the door, tapping both Face and Cruiser on the shoulder as he passed. Face followed immediately. Cruiser lingered a moment – long enough to spit a mouthful of blood in Decker's general direction before he turned and shoved his way through the startled crowd. Once outside, he immediately reached for his cigarettes.

"You think he'll still go to Sandgone?" Cruiser asked, searching for his lighter with hands that were slightly shaky from the adrenaline.

"He won't take the chance," Hannibal answered coldly, offering his lighter to Cruiser. "Not with me."

Face heaved a deep sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "Can we go home yet?" he asked wistfully.

Hannibal smiled faintly, and put a reassuring arm around his lieutenant's shoulders. "Almost, kid. Almost."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

The phone rang twice before it was answered by a voice that sounded more asleep than awake. "Hullo?"

Face glanced at his watch and smirked. "It's almost noon, Hannibal. When were you planning to get up?"

"Almost noon and you're just now getting around to calling?" Hannibal paused, and Face heard a bed creak. "I was trying to get a hold of you all night."

"Not all night," Face corrected. "You left a message with the answering service at midnight. And I didn't get your message until early this morning. I figured you'd be asleep and you said it wasn't an emergency."

"Where are you?"

Face sighed. "It's a long story. What's going on?"

A female voice in the background made Hannibal pause for a minute. Face could paint the picture from the background noise. Hannibal moved from the bed to the balcony and slid the sliding glass door closed behind him, affording some privacy. "I've got another client that sounds interesting."

Face glanced at the fire pit and the eight-year-old girl who was poking at the ashes from the night before. "Yeah, so do I," he answered.

"Oh, really?" Hannibal sounded terribly amused by that prospect. "Do share."

"You remember that nurse in Vietnam? Jessica Summers?"

"I remember a lot of nurses in Vietnam," Hannibal answered. "None of them by name."

"No, she was different. She was the one who came out to the little bases to train the Yards. We last… well, _you _last saw her in Duc Lap in '69."

"Blonde? Real thin and pretty?"

"Yeah."  
"I remember."

"I ran into her the other day," Face explained. "Her brother got into some trouble gambling and they're coming after her and her family for payment."

"Where's her brother now?"

"I don't know. I haven't talked to her much about it," Face admitted. "Figured I'd talk to you before I offered anything but…" He watched as James snuck out of the trees and crept up behind his sister. In his hands was a lizard. "Hannibal, these guys blew up her house. She's got two kids. They've got nowhere to go."

"She talk to the police?"

"Yeah. And I'm sure they'll look into it. But who knows how long that'll take. She could very well still be in danger."

"Where is she now?"

"With me." Heather screamed bloody murder as she jumped and spun, brushing her shoulders frantically as the lizard scrambled into the bushes. Face smirked slightly. "I've got her and her kids and her mother out at a campsite about an hour and a half northeast of the city. Figured it was the safest thing."

"Were they _in _the house when it blew up?"

"She and I were. Her mother had taken the kids out for ice cream."

"Mom!" Heather dug her heels in the dirt, fists at her sides, and yelled in the direction of the tent. "James is being mean!"

"The kids still don't really know what happened," Face continued, watching as Jessica stumbled out of the tent and headed toward the two children to find out what happened. "We haven't talked about it much. She's still trying not to think about it. She's not coping too well."

"What are you thinking of doing?"

"I don't know. But I certainly wouldn't feel guilty about taking these guys for all they're worth. It could be… fairly lucrative."

"Alright," Hannibal agreed. "I'll get everyone out there this evening."

"What about your client?"

"It can wait. I haven't contacted them yet. Let's look into this first."

**1969**

"Face?"

He glanced up as Hannibal poked his head into the barracks and called his name. "What's up?"

"Your presence is requested."

"By who?" he asked, curious. But he didn't wait for an answer as he got up.

"General Sandgone," Hannibal smiled.

Face groaned as he shoved his feet into his boots and habitually tucked his pistol into its holster.

The helicopter in the landing zone was just disembarking its passengers. Among them was General Jeff Sandgone – Chief of SOG. Before he'd even had a chance to meet Sandgone in person, Face had developed something of an opinion on him. He was too by-the-book for Face's liking. And if he was too straight-laced for Face, the conflict was amplified a hundred times over in his dealings with Hannibal.

Sandgone paused to shake a few hands and exchange smiles on his way over to them. Once he came close enough, he reached out and shook hands with them both. "Colonel Smith," he greeted politely.

"General," Hannibal answered.

"Lieutenant Peck."

"Sir."

"Glad to see you both alive and well." Sandgone gestured in the direction of the TOC. "Let's talk, shall we?"

**1969**

"The KKK?" Face asked, confused. "I thought we were in South Vietnam, not South Carolina." He dragged on his cigarette, frowning deeply.

"That's what they call them," Sandgone explained. "They're bandits who come across the border from Cambodia."

"Bandits?" Hannibal questioned. "Attacking an A-Team camp?"

"Why not just blow them to holy hell?"

"No, they don't attack the camp," Sandgone answered. "They attack the patrols. They'll take on anyone they think they can overpower. They have no allegiance; they're just in it for the money."

Face cast a quick glance at Hannibal. "That sounds interesting."

"What is it you want us to do?" Hannibal questioned, leaning against the wall of the TOC, arms crossed.

"Cripple them," Sandgone answered. "And… delicately."

Face frowned deeply. "What do you mean, delicately?"

"We've been taking some heat lately for our operations in Cambodia." Sandgone looked at each of them in turn. "If we can't learn to be a little more careful, a little more quiet… we're going to have to limit our actions across the border."

"In other words," Hannibal sighed, "we're not in Cambodia, we never were, and we never will be."

"That's a very good way of putting it, yes."

"So what happens if our bandits go back across the border?" Face asked.

"Which they will," Hannibal added, "if they have any brains at all. Especially if they know we won't chase them."

Westman shook his head. "I can't tell you _how _to deal with them. All I can say is that their dead bodies better not be strewn all over the Cambodian side of that border."

Face sighed. "Well, that just makes it a fun challenge, doesn't it?" He exchanged smiles with Hannibal, then looked back at Westman. "How many men are we talking about here? In this bandit group?"

"That would be a question for Captain Locke, not me."

"He's the camp commander?"

"Yes."

Hannibal frowned. "How many men have we lost to them?" He knew it must be considerable if it had warranted their involvement.

"They've lost almost every man on two different patrols," Sandgone answered. "But more importantly, they're tying up the camp's resources. Duc Hue is right on the border, in dangerous territory. The VC can come across the border, hit the camp, and run back. We knew that when we sent them out there to build it, but we weren't anticipating this kind of interference from bandits."

"How long have they had to set up the camp?"

"They've only been there about four weeks. Long enough to get their basic buildings situated, but not long enough to really dig in. If they get hit, they're going to have to evacuate. And they keep losing men to these bandits."

Hannibal and Face exchanged glances, then looked back at Sandgone. "This Captain Locke," Hannibal started. "How much experience does he have?"

"If you're asking my opinion of him, he's a damn good soldier. And he's in a hell of a mess until he can get that camp fortified."

"Alright. Have you assigned a chopper and crew for this?"

"They'll be waiting for you at the LZ in one hour. Warrant Officer Jerry Carsky is your AC."

Hannibal glanced at Face and nodded. "Get everyone together. We'll do a preliminary briefing in the chopper and a formal one after we get out there and see what we're dealing with."

"Right, Colonel."

**1978**

"You remember Hannibal…"

Jessica smiled as she extended a hand. "Colonel," she greeted. "It's good to see you well."

"Good to see you, too," he nodded with a smile.

"I don't know why, but I'm really surprised you made it back to the States in one piece," she grinned back. "What with some of the stunts you used to pull."

"Didn't we all?" he chuckled. "This is BA Baracus and HM Murdock."

"Baracus," she repeated. Suddenly her eyes lit up in recognition. "Oh, I remember you."

He gave her a questioning look. "We met?"

"Not directly. But you made quite an impression on my entire unit when you cold-cocked the doctor who was trying to set your broken arm."

"Oh yeah…" BA nodded thoughtfully. "I remember that."

Murdock extended a hand as BA reminisced, and shook with her. "I believe we met briefly," he offered.

"Did we?" she asked, confused.

"Oh, he was our… pilot," Face explained quickly, sure that he could do it with more tact and subtlety than Murdock. "Helicopter pilot. In 'Nam."

Once he saw her face turn a beautiful shade of crimson, he knew she understood. "Oh!" She lowered her eyes. "I uh… never got a chance to really thank you for the uh… the ride."

Murdock smiled knowingly. "My pleasure."

If anyone wondered, they didn't ask. "I hear you have some trouble," Hannibal started.

Jessica glanced at Face, then back at Hannibal, not entirely sure what to say. "I… yes. You might say that."

"Well, if you'd like to tell us about it, maybe we can help."

She looked confused. "I'm not sure what –"

"Mom!" Heather sprinted toward them, cutting her mother off mid sentence. "James has a spider and he's trying to put it on me!"

James followed a few steps behind, watching the Daddy Long Legs that was crawling up his arm. Heather screamed as he came closer. "Mom! Tell him to put it down!"

Jessica sighed. "James, will you pleasestop terrorizing your sister with the bugs." She brushed the spider off of his arm. "_And_ the lizards. _And _the snakes. And anything else you might find that creeps or crawls."

"But Mom!"

"Children, this is Mr. Smith and Mr. Murdock," she introduced.

"Hi!" James greeted cheerfully, extending a hand like a real grown-up. Murdock smiled as he shook with him. Hannibal did the same. The boy's sister was too busy studying BA with a look of amazement to bother shaking hands.

"And this is Mr. Baracus."

"BA is fine," he corrected.

"Why do you wear so many necklaces?" Heather asked. "I thought necklaces were for girls."

"Heather!" James cried. "That's not nice!"

"Children," Jessica was clearly embarrassed, "why don't you go see if Momma has dinner ready?"

As they scampered away, Jessica ran her fingers through her hair. "Sorry about that," she apologized with a nervous smile.

"It's okay." BA grinned back. "They just kids."

"You know," Murdock said thoughtfully, his gaze following the retreating children. "That little boy bears a striking resemblance to –"

"So Jessica just started working at the VA hospital." Face cut him off with a glare. It was an effective distraction.

"So I heard." Murdock smiled. "We could be seein' a lot of each other then."

"Do you work there too?" Jessica asked, confused.

"No, ma'am, I live there," Murdock announced proudly.

"How about we sit down," Face gestured, ignoring the startled look on Jessica's face. "We could go down by the water."

Hannibal nodded. "Lead the way."

**1969**

Between Captain Locke and the entourage that followed him, it was one of the warmest welcomes Face had ever encountered. As the blades wound down, the team filed out of the back of the UH-1. "You really just want me to leave this right here?" the AC called down to the camp commander from the left side cockpit, sounding skeptical.

"Yeah, right there's fine," Locke yelled up to him.

Face opened the door for him, but he waited until the blades came to a stop before he crawled down to the ground. The camp commander of A-325 and the American soldiers behind him were looking them all over with interest.

"So you're the general's infamous A-Team." Locke grinned.

Hannibal reached out a hand and shook with him. "I'm Hannibal Smith," he introduced. "This is Lieutenant Templeton Peck, Sergeant Ray Brenner, Sergeant James Harrison, Sergeant BA Baracus."

Locke shook hands with each of them, and introduced himself, the camp's XO, and the senior radio operator. "When we heard you were coming, we couldn't believe it," Locke chuckled. "They just took away fifty of my best men like it was no big deal. Now all of a sudden we make it back to the top of the priority list."

Hannibal frowned. "Why did they do that?"

"Oh, some political bullshit," Locke explained, waving a hand dismissively. "They leave me with 75 CIDG and a Vietnamese commander who doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. Never mind that there's a fucking VC camp not five clicks away with enough men and ammo to massacre us in their sleep if we can't get this camp built up before they hit us."

Face glanced around as they walked, surveying the half-finished buildings without roofs. It was a square fort, with sandbagged mud walls studded with machine guns and topped with barbed wire. But if they hadn't even had a chance to put roofs on the buildings, chances were that their perimeter was no more secure than what he saw with the naked eye. It wasn't much.

"Are you anticipating an attack anytime soon?" Cruiser asked.

"They've been building ladders and coffins in the village for almost two weeks now," Locke answered.

"Which means you might have another two or three days at the most," Boston interpreted. Once they had enough ladders to go over the fences – ladders that doubled as stretchers to carry back the dead and wounded – they would attack. It was a sure sign that they were mounting an attack when they started constructing them.

"Sounds like you've got bigger problems than these Cambodian bandits," Face said. He had a sneaking suspicion that they were going to get caught in the middle of a battle for control of this camp.

"The bandits were our biggest problem up until we saw how big the camp we're up against is." Locke glanced at Hannibal. "We had to get the okay to fly into Cambodian airspace to see it. The thing is massive. Two battalions, maybe even three."

If Hannibal was intimidated by those figures, he didn't show it. Cruiser was the one to answer him. "And you intend to defend this camp against three battalions?" he asked in disbelief. "What do you think this is, Thermopylae?"

"How many of these bandits are there?" Hannibal asked.

"A few dozen, maybe. It's hard to tell."

"I forget; do any of you speak Khmer?" Hannibal asked, glancing over his shoulders at his team.

"Kind of," BA volunteered, uneasy. "Not real well."

"Fine," Hannibal said. "Take an interpreter and some strikers and go with Face. Go make us some friends."

"Right," Face answered with a smirk.

"It's not quite that simple," Locke protested, stunned by the order. "They won't hesitate to overtake you if they think they've got any chance. Even if you're willing to do business with them."

"They're savages," the radio operator added.

"Get going," Hannibal ordered, ignoring the warnings. "I want a report by 2200 hours."

"Can I see your weapons cache?" Face requested as he tapped the arm of one of the soldiers. Without another word, Face and BA split off from the rest of the team.

**1978**

"You mean to tell me that you've not read the papers at all in the past six years?" Hannibal was truly shocked at the possibility that an LA resident had never so much as heard of them.

"It's just not one of my priorities," Jessica explained.

Hannibal looked at Face now, as if to ask how he'd managed to avoid telling her _anything _about their current situation. It wouldn't have been the first time, of course. But usually there was some kind of elaborate lie to cover it up. He'd neither lied to her, nor explained himself. Apparently, she really just hadn't felt any need to ask.

"When were you planning on filling her in?" Hannibal asked, curious.

"Filling me in on what?" she asked innocently, noting the smile Murdock was hiding behind his hand.

"Ah, well," Face started. "See… it's kind of a long story. But the basic gist of it…"

She folded her arms and waited expectantly for this long story, probably wondering why it hadn't been given to her sooner. Hannibal was wondering the same thing.

"Well, see, we got into some trouble with the military," Face started delicately. "We didn't actually do anything wrong, but we ended up with a court martial and actually, we sort of… escaped from prison."

Jessica's eyes went wide. "You _what_!"

"Like I said," Face said quickly, hands up in surrender. "It's a long story."

"One we'll save for another time," Hannibal cut in.

"You escaped from _prison_?"

Hannibal continued, ignoring her. "For right now, the important part is, we make a living now by helping people with unconventional problems in unconventional ways. And your problem, from what I've heard, fits the bill."

She was gaping at him. "Wha…? I…" She shook her head quickly as if to clear it. "What are you talking about?"

"There's a gambling ring your brother got into," BA said. "They blew up your house. Face told us about it."

She stared, stunned. "I… yes. But…" Again, she shook her head and took in a deep breath. "I'm sorry, this is just a little bit overwhelming." She paused, and they gave her a few seconds to regroup her thoughts before she took a deep breath and started again. "Okay, so what you're telling me is that I'm aiding and abetting fugitives?"

"No…" Murdock corrected. "Fugitives are aiding and abetting _you_. Not quite the same thing."

"How do you figure?" she asked, stunned.

"Well, because if we weren't, your moral obligation would be to turn us in. But since we're actually sticking our own necks out to help you, your moral obligation sort of swings the other way."

"I…" It took her a few seconds to figure out her next words. "Okay, I haven't exactly asked you for help. And besides… you guys said you did this for a living? I can't pay you. The situation I'm in right now is –"

"Don't worry about that," Face assured her with a smile. "Gambling rings pay for themselves."

She turned toward him and a flicker of anger crossed her eyes. "Why didn't you say anything about this before?" she demanded. "You put me and my whole family in danger!"

"Ms. Summers," Hannibal cut in, "the situation is not dangerous for your family."

"But you're fugitives!"

"The most that would happen is that you'd be questioned by the military police."

"At which point you say you know nothing." Face stepped forward a little. "And they sure as hell wouldn't blow up your house to make a point."

"Yeah, but – "

"If you want help," Hannibal said, "that's what we're here for. If you don't, we can turn around and go back home."

"We here to help," BA agreed. "Not to make things worse."

Murdock shrugged. "What've you got to lose?"

She looked back and forth at the men standing around her, then finally shut her eyes and breathed deep. "I have this strange feeling that I'm going to regret this…"

**1969**

The interpreter was nervous about this plan. So were the five CIDG soldiers with them – two on the ground with BA and three up in the trees with Face. Nobody said a word as they waited, silent and still. In the small clearing below, the two soldiers had built a small fire. They looked unaware, their guns lying beside them. But Face knew otherwise. Every whisper of the wind was carefully noted, as well as every scent and every shifting shadow. There was no firm guarantee that these bandits wouldn't shoot before even determining what they were shooting at. It provided some comfort that the three on the ground were dressed in the black pajamas that the so-called "KKK" wore, but there was still no guarantee.

A twig broke. It was the only sound Face needed. A quick signal from BA – it hadn't come from him or his two men – and Face scanned the trees carefully. He'd already memorized every inch, and it didn't take long to see the hanging vines that were out of place. He shifted just slightly to get a better angle, and aimed the XM-16 sniper rifle at the changed scenery. Looking through the scope, he saw the movement a few seconds later, and aimed to put a bullet into the tree just a half-inch in front of the man's face.

One shot, and instantly, the interpreter called out in the unintelligible language. But Face knew he was saying exactly what he'd been instructed to say: "Move and you're dead."

More rustling, and a few shots from the Yards in the trees with him. An AK returned fire, and almost immediately stopped again with a cry of pain. "Put down your weapons and get your hands on your heads or we'll open fire on all of you!" Face yelled in English. The translator repeated him. "You're surrounded and we know exactly where you are!"

BA and the two CIDG on the ground had turned and leveled their weapons at the thick undergrowth. But clearly, they hadn't been the ones to fire the first shot. The bandits didn't know where those bullets had come from, and they wisely chose to comply with the mysterious voices.

"We want to talk business," Face called, pausing to let the interpreter translate. "We're Americans and we're willing to negotiate price. It's a simple task. Are you interested?"

A moment's pause, and a voice called back. "They say they talk," the interpreter translated.

Face smiled. "Wise choice."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

**1978**

"You said you knew where your brother went to gamble," Face prodded as they headed back toward the camp.

"I said I could find it again," Jessica clarified. "That's not quite the same thing."

"What area is it in?" Hannibal asked.

Jessica sighed. "Let me put this another way." They all paused and turned to glance at her as she continued. "I'm going with you."

Hannibal frowned. "That's not such a good idea, Ms. Summers."

"They were sitting outside your house," Face reminded her, confused by her sudden change. First she'd not been sure she wanted their help, now she wanted to go with them? "They'll recognize you."

"I'll stay out of sight," she bargained. "You could need me."

"Ms. Summers, the best place for you is here with your children," Hannibal tried again.

"That's right," BA agreed. "What would happen to them if something happened to you?"

"No worse than what could've happened if that explosion had happened a few minutes earlier." She looked around for support, but found none. Finally, she took a step forward and rested a hand on Hannibal's forearm. "Hannibal, please," she whispered. "Please. This is my family. My brother. It's my problem more than it is any of yours. I'll do whatever you ask, take whatever precautions are necessary. But please. I'm begging you."

Hannibal studied her for a long moment. Then he cast a quick glance at Face. A shrug, and Face looked away. Jessica watched Hannibal's look pass to each of his men, a non-verbal conversation passing back and forth. Finally, he turned back to her. "Alright," he agreed. "Let's get going, then."

"Now?" Jessica asked, surprised.

"The night is young," Hannibal grinned.

"What about the kids? I don't want to leave them out here with Momma."

"Oh, nonsense, child, we'll be fine!" Momma seemed to appear out of nowhere, inviting herself into the conversation.

"I'd feel better if you were closer to a hospital. Just in case."

"We will be just fine."

"If you prefer," Hannibal offered, "we could take you to a hotel."

"Either way, you should be safe," Face assured, though Jessica seemed far more concerned than Momma did.

"What is there to do at a hotel room?" Momma challenged, hands on her hips as she faced Jessica. "The kids are having fun here. I don't mind staying a few more nights."

Hannibal glanced back and forth between the two women, waiting for a decision. Finally, Jessica relented. "Fine," she sighed. "Let's go then."

"Get your stuff together," Face directed her, resting a hand naturally on the small of her back. "You can ride with me."

She turned away, walking in stride with Momma toward the picnic table where the kids were eating. Face watched her go, then turned to Hannibal. "You think it's a good idea to take her?"

"Not really," Hannibal admitted. "But we've taken clients with us before in situations just as risky. And she could turn out to be useful."

**1969**

"At midnight tonight, you take fifty men between the village and the camp," Hannibal instructed Locke, "backed right up against this river here. When the VC run out of the village, they'll run towards the camp. Some may even run out of the camp to try and reinforce the village."

"Why will the VC be running out of the village?" Locke asked.

"Because we'll be coming in the other side." Hannibal pointed out the topography. "You'll be on a hill. All you have to do is point and shoot."

"Inside of Cambodia," Locke reminded, eyeing Hannibal skeptically. "How are you planning to do this without causing an international incident? If you have a bunch of shot-up VC on Cambodian soil, they'll know we did it."

"That's why you need a fall guy," Hannibal grinned. "Face?"

Face took a step forward, hands buried in the pockets of his jungle fatigues. "I talked to the leader of this so-called KKK early this morning. I told him that we were in an awkward position because we simply can't send a patrol over into Cambodia to find out what's going on over there, but we needed to know what the VC are planning. They were all too happy to help in exchange for a thousand piastres a piece, five rifles, and five automatic weapons."

"You agreed to give them weapons?" one of Locke's men asked, clearly horrified.

"They'll need them," Hannibal answered.

"For what, exactly?"

Hannibal smiled as he lit his cigar. "For shooting the VC, of course."

**1978**

"You could've told me, you know."

Face watched the road, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the roof of the car, fingers tapping. "Well, now we're even," he answered, casting a quick glance in her direction.

She glared at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, don't even try it," he said with a laugh. "Mother of two."

"I had a good reason."

"I had a better one."

For a long moment, she was silent, glaring out the windshield at the van driving ahead of them. "So is that what Cruiser meant when he said you went too far?"

Face hesitated. "That depends on the context."

"What context?"

"Cruiser and I had our issues even before the war ended," he explained cautiously. "We both went too far. As far as the court martial, and everything since then, everything he knows is secondhand. He wasn't in on the mission."

"Why not?"

"Because he was... injured."

"The shelling?"

Face glanced at her, confused. "Shelling?"

"Yeah." She lowered her eyes. "Or was that later?"

He shook his head a little, not sure what she was talking about. "I guess it went off in the room next to him and put him right through the wall. Messed up his face pretty bad," she continued. "Broke his cheekbone and his jaw in three different places and his nose was just completely shattered. And his arm, and a few ribs. I can't remember what else he said." She glanced up at him. "He had to have reconstructive surgery on his face though. It was pretty bad."  
Face stared at her so long, he almost ran off the road.

"Face!" Jessica cried, startled.

He snapped back to attention and looked back at the van in front of them, putting both hands on the wheel. "Oh," he finally answered. "That shelling."

"What's the matter with you?" she demanded, still gripping the armrest with white knuckles.

"Sorry." He cleared his throat.

"I take it you didn't hear about that?"

He hesitated. "I knew he was injured. I uh… didn't know how, um… how."

She smiled sadly. "Almost makes you want to go patch things up, huh?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Heh. Yeah, it does, doesn't it?" He wracked his brain for a change of topic.

"He's a lot different now than he used to be," she said quietly, reflectively. She smiled as she glanced over at Face. "Kinda like you. But in a very different way."

He didn't want to talk about Cruiser. But the statement begged the question. "What do you mean?"

She sighed. "I didn't know him very well in the war. Our paths only crossed a few times. But he seemed… happier."

"Happier?" Face laughed. Of all the words he'd been expecting to finish out that lingering statement, "happier" hadn't even been on the list.

"Well, more…" She trailed off, and sighed. "Like he had purpose. He was so full of energy and he was… fun. But when he came back he was… different. I don't know how to describe it. But something changed in him. There's something about him that just…" She shivered noticeably, keeping her eyes away. "When I think about him, it scares me."

Something else to talk about. Anything else. What the hell was there to talk about? "So where is this bar at?"

She laughed, pulling herself out of her thoughts. "Nice try. But since you want a change of topic…" She crossed her arms over her chest as she turned to him. "Would you care to explain to me the long story about how you escaped from jail?"

He sighed.

**1969**

The rattling sound of semi-automatic weapons seemed to echo in the night. Face couldn't help the gut reaction – the tension and tightening in his shoulders, the adrenaline that rushed into his veins.

"You sure this is gonna work?" Captain Locke asked, pressed down in the dirt beside him.

"Which part?" Face smiled, watching the fires light up in the village. "I'm pretty sure Hannibal and the others will be able to flush them out of that village, if that's what you're asking."

Locke chuckled. "No, that's not quite what I was asking."

Face didn't answer, just watched in the darkness for any signs of movement, gun ready. "You know, Lieutenant," Locke finally continued. "I must say that yours is the most unique unit I've ever come across."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Face looked back as he saw the beginnings of movement. Charlie was running – in either direction. From the ridge, they had a clear line of sight from the village to the VC camp, obstructed only by the darkness.

Face took in a breath and let it out slow, then pulled his weapon tight against his shoulder. "Alright, boys," he muttered under his breath. "Curtain's up."

His first shot was followed by a thousand more from all the way across the ridge.

**1969**

The KKK leader was in the same black pajamas that the VC wore, ammunition strung across his shoulders and his fist tight around his weapon. His features – just slightly different - distinguished him from the Vietnamese. But like them, at the moment, he looked seriously pissed off.

Guns were pointed all around, and Face was careful not to step between any of the rifles and their target. Of course, he realized that he was the target for the opposite side. As he reached into his pocket, producing a wad of folded bills, he smiled politely. "Here it is. Oh, and feel free to count it," he said cheerfully, tossing the stack to the man as the interpreter translated.

The bandit leader caught the money and handed it to the man standing beside him to count. There was hatred written in his eyes as he glared at Face and angrily shot something indistinguishable at him. Face glanced to the interpreter. "He want to know who he shoot at over there."

"Why, it must have been the VC," Face answered innocently and with a shrug. He looked over at the man, though he knew he only understood every fifth word, if even that. "Gee, I am real sorry about that, too. But the Americans, you know… we know how to do business. We certainly don't shoot at our business partners."

The chief scowled, not taking his eyes off of Face as he spat a long string of venomous accusations. "He say you no do good business," the interpreter relayed. "You not tell him about attack on village. His men get shot from two sides. They lose 15 men. Not find all bodies."

"We sure are sorry about that," Face answered, expressing his deepest condolences. "Tell him we'll give him a thousand piastres for each of his KIA as a gesture of our sympathy and token of our good will."

More indistinguishable chatter, and the translator reported back. "He say he want 500 piastres bounty for 100 VC killed. He say they kill at least that many when VC run toward camp."

Face considered that carefully. Technically, if they couldn't produce proof of their kills – hands or ears – there was no rule of any kind that they should be paid. Face decided not to antagonize them. The man looked furious enough as it was. "Tell him we'll pay for 25 VC," he negotiated. "And tell him that we'll need a receipt."

More gibberish. Sensing the growing tension, the CIDG shifted their weapons nervously. But BA and Cruiser, on either side of where Face stood facing the bandit, both had their guns trained on the enemy. Face felt secure.

"He say he want weapons to replace the ones he lose shooting VC."

"Tell him we're real sorry," Face answered. "But if he can't hold onto his weapons, that's his problem. Not ours."

The bandit leader realized he'd gotten all he could out of the deal and reluctantly accepted. Face exchanged money for a signature, shook hands with the man while Cruiser's camera snapped pictures, and backed away as the men turned to leave, dragging their wounded off with them.

"Why we take pictures?" the interpreter asked once the bandits were out of earshot.

"Because," Face answered. "If anyone asks, we paid off the KKK to shoot it out with the VC." He grinned as he cast a glance at BA and Cruiser. "And we were never in Cambodia."


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**1969**

"Colonel Smith?"

Hannibal looked up, startled by the urgency in the young sergeant's voice. He gave a quick salute, remaining at the door. "General Westman is looking for you, sir," he declared. "He says it's very urgent that you and Lieutenant Peck report to him immediately."

Face and Hannibal exchanged curious glances before Hannibal dismissed the young soldier and rose to his feet, leaving a letter half-written on the desk.

"Oooh…" Cruiser taunted, not looking up from the magazine he had flat on his bunk. "You guys are in trouble…"

Hannibal gave a quick smirk in his direction. "Not likely, Sergeant."

"Sure about that?" Boston joined in. He did afford a glance up, and snickered.

"How's he even know we in Da Nang?" BA asked. "We just got here."

"He always knows where we are," Hannibal replied, waiting for Face to tie his boots. "It's part of the deal."

Face kept his head down as he spoke. "I guess it's a good thing that we happen to be in the neighborhood if it's so urgent that he sees us."

Hannibal raised a brow at the slight tension in Face's voice. "Guilty conscience, Lieutenant?"

Cruiser laughed. "Busted!"

Face glared briefly at him, then exchanged glances with Hannibal. "Very funny. But I'd like to think that if I did something wrong, I would've enjoyed it enough to remember it." Face stood and smirked at Hannibal as he passed. "I guess I just have issues with authority in general."

Hannibal grinned, but didn't answer. He knew when he was being baited.

The sergeant who'd announced Westman's request was waiting in a Jeep outside the barracks. He flew like a bat out of hell across the base, stressing the "urgent" part of his orders. When he finally stopped, both passengers had to pry their fingers off the roll cage. If either was bothered by it, they didn't say anything as they bailed out in front of the GHQ. Face put a hand through his greasy, windblown hair as they started up the steps.

"Know what just occurred to me?" he asked under his breath.

"Hmm?" Hannibal's hair was shorter, per regulation. Not because regulation made a damn bit of difference in the jungle, but simply because it was easier.

"It's 120 degrees out here. I've been wearing these same BDUs for over a week. And I haven't showered since we got back from Cambodia." He paused while Hannibal laughed. "And I'm walking into the office of the four star general who's pretty much _running _this goddamn war, past guys like –" He paused for long enough to exchanged salutes with the guards at the door and step into the much cooler, air conditioned building. "- like that guy, who still spit shines his fucking boots every night."

Hannibal smirked. "Self-conscious, are we?"

"Slightly," Face admitted bitterly. "I much prefer these meetings when he comes to us."

Hannibal laughed outright at that. "You're right, Face. It's so much easier when the four star general who's running this goddamn war comes to us."

Face didn't bother answering the sarcasm. He kept pace with Hannibal, matching him perfectly, step for step as they walked down the long hallway. The path was familiar to Hannibal, less so to Face. Both men knew Westman by reputation; he was the man who went to bat for them when the Pentagon came down hard on their operations, restricting them and their effectiveness. Hannibal knew him on a more personal note: Westman was also the man who'd given Hannibal the authority to put his team together – a special team that operated unlike any other unit. The repoire that existed between Westman and Hannibal was widely known.

As they started up the steps to the second floor, Face sighed deeply. "You know, to be perfectly honest, Hannibal?" Face was staring down at the floor passing under his feet when Hannibal glanced at him. "This still makes me nervous as all hell."

"What?" Hannibal asked, surprised. "Westman?"

Face glanced up briefly, frown still in place. "You forget, Hannibal. The first time we met, it wasn't exactly friendly. And he could still put me in jail for a _very _long time."

Hannibal smiled, noticing the out of character uncertainty. "Don't worry about it, kid," he reassured him quietly. "I've known Westman for a long time. If he wanted to burn you, he would've done it before he put you on my team."

"Oh, believe me, the thought has occurred to me." As they reached the top of the steps, Face glanced again at Hannibal. "You do know that I gave him a written explanation for all those charges right? Pretty much a signed confession for all of it."

Hannibal hadn't known that. But it made no difference. "Like I said, kid. If he was going to burn you, he would've already done it."

"Yeah, you trust him. I get that. But you'll understand why this is not my favorite place to be."

Face lingered a step behind as Hannibal walked into the office and saw General Westman standing at the window with a cigarette in hand. He turned as the door opened and didn't wait for a greeting. "Come in. Sit down. Close the door."

Both men remained expressionless as they obeyed. Westman turned and walked back towards the desk, brow furrowed. "You'll forgive me if I skip the pleasantries but we have a situation and this needs to be brief. Lieutenant?"

Already on the edge of his seat, Face sat up a little straighter with an almost-casual, "Sir?"

"I understand that you were involved in an incident some time ago where you retrieved an American who was being held hostage from a bar controlled by the VC."

Face blinked, startled. It took him several seconds to even find a point of reference. "Uh… if that's how the story goes, General, it wasn't told by me."

Westman tapped the ashes off of his cigarette into an ashtray on his desk. "You have sixty seconds to give me your version."

Without a clue where the general was going with this, Face simply gave him the truth. "When I first got into SOG, Sergeant Will Dysart and I went to Da Nang on stand down. We were at a bar; I left and he stayed. As I was walking out, two Vietnamese were walking in and trying to conceal AK-47s. The bar had a rule – I knew they knew it – so I knew they were there to start trouble. I turned around and walked back in. About the time they pulled their weapons out, I had a pistol on both their necks." He shook his head slightly. "How that turned into hostage negotiations, I have no idea."

Westman stared at him, gaze steady, unwavering. It was a long, tense moment before he took one last drag on his cigarette and leaned forward to put it out in the ashtray. "Would you like to try your hand at hostage negotiations, Lieutenant?"

Again, Face was caught off guard. He glanced quickly at Hannibal's emotionless expression. "I'd be willing to," he finally answered, hesitantly, "if you have a hostage readily available. But I can't promise anything. I've never been trained for it."

Another tense moment of silence. But this time, Hannibal broke it before it extended too long. "What's going on, Ross?"

Westman paused for a moment. "Sounds like a similar situation only this time there was nobody there to stop them from opening fire." He paused and folded his hands on the desk. "We don't know how many people are still alive. We don't even know how many Americans are in there. We do know that Chief SOG General Sandgone is one of them."

Hannibal frowned deeply. "Do _they _know that?"

"We don't think so. He wasn't in uniform."

"And they're treating it like a hostage situation? That's a little odd for the VC."

"We're treating it like a hostage situation," Westman corrected. "They're shooting at anyone who comes within range."

"How many are there?"

"We don't know. Enough to cover all the entrances to the building. We had six men shot outside before we even realized what was going on." Westman sighed and leaned back. "We could storm it. We _would _take it. But everyone inside would be as good as dead. We could wait it out. But the result would probably be the same. And anyone alive in there is probably bleeding out as we speak."

"But we don't know for a fact that there is anybody still alive."

Westman shook his head slightly. "No. We don't."

"Who's in charge out there right now?"  
"Military police. Major Steven Wren."

"Does _he _know who's in there?"

Westman nodded.

Hannibal lowered his eyes, losing himself in quiet thought for a few minutes. The other two men let him think. Finally, he looked up. "Face?"

Face had been waiting for it. "You _do _know that I don't speak Vietnamese, right?"

"That's never stopped you before."

"No…" Face was very hesitant to agree with him, even with qualification. "But I've never had to negotiate a hostage situation with the VC before. At least not with words."

"Take a translator with you."

Face winced. "Wouldn't it maybe be better to get somebody who's been trained for this? Maybe even someone who speaks the language? Doesn't the Agency have anyone who might be a little better suited for this?"

"There's no time," Westman said. "Getting the Agency's cooperation on anything requires a hell of a lot of paperwork. And if anyone's still alive in there…"

"Face, if you can keep them busy for a few minutes – distract them – we'll get in. We'll take care of the rest."

Face frowned. "I don't know that it'll take them a few minutes to shoot me. It usually just takes a few seconds."

Hannibal's gaze didn't waver. Face stared back at him, saying nothing. After a long hesitation, Hannibal looked back across the desk at Westman. "I want three of the best snipers we have on hand."

"You have four, and they're already out there."

"Good." Hannibal rose to his feet. "Where is this bar?"

Westman stood as well. "I'll go with you."

Hannibal raised a brow at the incentive. "Are you sure that's wise, General?"

Westman laughed briefly. "You're the one about to send your XO into a bar full of VC to negotiate in a language he can neither speak nor understand. You're askin' about me?"

Face's jaw was set. Westman had a damn good point, but Face didn't bother to protest. It wouldn't do him much good, and he knew it.

"Well, I'll advise against it." Hannibal smiled politely at Westman. "But we both know you still outrank me."

Westman smiled tightly as he rounded his desk and headed for the door. "And don't you forget it, boy."

**1978**

"Remember," BA instructed carefully, handing over the small transmitters, "this one right here has the longest range. This one has the shortest. Be careful where you put them or we won't get a signal."

"I got it," Face assured, slipping the small electronic devices in his pocket.

"An' be careful with 'em!" BA ordered. "They'll break if you toss 'em around. Or if you land on 'em. Or if they get stepped on."

Face nodded, and shrugged out of the jacket. He handed it to Hannibal and withdrew his pistol from the back of his jeans, handing that over as well. Hannibal exchanged it for a bottle of cheap vodka and Jessica watched quietly as Face opened the bottle and filled his mouth with it. He swished it around a few times, turned, and spit it out.

"Ugh, that stuff's horrible," he winced. "How much did we pay for that bottle?"

"A dollar and a half," Hannibal answered.

"Yeah, tastes like it."

Face dribbled the foul-smelling liquor on his shirt then handed the bottle back. "Try not to attract _too _much attention to yourself," Hannibal warned. "I don't want to have to come in there and get you out."

Face smirked as he messed up his hair, but remained silent.

"Be careful," Jessica called after him as he turned away.

He waved over his shoulder, but he was already slipping into character – feeling the weight of his feet with every step and the numb, unresponsive feeling in his tongue. He couldn't appear too drunk or they wouldn't serve him. But he wasn't sober, either.

The bar was a dive. Three carved-up tables and chairs scattered around. A drunk man and woman – possibly a prostitute - in the corner. Broken jukebox – not plugged in. Three of the five light bulbs over the tables were burned out. No windows. Hallway off the back of the bar with an exit sign posted. Chain hanging by the door with a padlock clasped to it – there was a link in the door for it, too. Even better than a deadbolt. Three rows of bottles behind the bar, three common beers on tap, broken mirror. Five men at the bar: one apparently sleeping, two of them wasted, two mostly sober and holding a hushed conversation with the bartender. None would pose a threat as long as they were unarmed. No guns on belts and no jackets to hide them. The man on the end smoked Marlboro reds. Rickety stools – one broken in the corner. A cockroach skittered across the floor.

Face walked to the bar with a minimal amount of stumbling and sat right in the center, between the sleeper and Marlboro man. The bartender pushed himself up from where he was leaning forward on the sink and stumbled toward him. "What'll it be?" he asked, tossing a napkin on the top of the bar.

"L-I-T," he ordered with a wave.

If the bartender had any qualms about serving an already-intoxicated man with more liquor, he didn't voice them. He wouldn't have expected him to, given the bar's patrons. Face watched him mix the drink, paying closer attention than he let on, gauging just how strong it was. He could hold his liquor as well as any soldier - maybe even better than most. But perhaps more importantly, he knew his limits. Two and a half drinks like that and he'd be feeling it. Five and he'd be unable to walk. There was only about a teaspoon of Coke at the top of that tall glass of liquor.

"Thanks, man."

Face was using one hand to lift the glass while the other hand fished for money. The liquor was strong enough to burn his throat, and he drank it fast. So fast that the bartender's eyes widened. But if he thought to warn him about the effects of chugging down a mixture of vodka, gin, tequila, and rum, he decided against it as Face dropped a ten dollar bill on the bar top and pulled himself out of the glass long enough to slur, "Keep the change."

The bartender went back to his business.

Face finished the drink in record time and felt in his pocket for the smallest of the three transmitters. It was still about a half-inch in diameter, and he had some trouble wrestling it out of his pocket. Withdrawing his hand again with the device between his fingers, he leaned forward, shoving the glass.

"Hey, barkeep!" He shoved it too far, right over the edge of the bar and onto the lower counter on the other side. It bounced, then dropped to the floor and shattered, spilling ice all over. "Oh, shit!"

Leaning forward so far he almost fell over the bar, his eyes scanned the inside of the bar. Plenty of room, and plenty dark. As the bartender grabbed his shoulders to keep him from falling headfirst, he reached down and set the transmitter under the lip of the bar, out of sight.

"Aw, man, I'm so sorry!" he stammered, regaining his balance again.

"Sit down," the bartender ordered. "Just sit down, okay?"

"You alright?" Marlboro man asked.

Face slid to his feet. "Yeah, I'm… Uh huh… M'jus' gonna go find the li'l boys room…" He laughed a little. "Sorry man," he gestured to the bartender. "Real sorry."

"It's down on your left," the bartender directed him.

Face waved over his shoulder and shoved his other hand into his pocket, feeling for the next transmitter. He had it between his fingers as he stumbled down the short, dark hallway. He went to the left first, into the bathroom, and quickly scanned to make sure he was alone before planting the second bug in a crack in one of the two stalls. Then he exited, took two more steps down the hall, and heaved his weight at the door to the right, shoulder first. The frame cracked as the door busted in.

Jackpot.

Three men. Four chairs and a round table. Money on the table, at least a few grand. Poker chips. Thick smoke from the cigarettes in the ashtray. No other furniture. No windows. One bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling over the table. Stunned man made of pure muscle standing by the door he was falling through. He was dangerous. The corners of the room were dark. He had no good place to hide the bug. Better hope these things weren't as delicate as BA had led him to believe.

He sprawled forward, as if off balance from his fall through the door, and caught the edge of the table as he hit the floor, turning it over. The clatter and confusion were more than enough to mask the fact that with an inconspicuous flick of the wrist on his other hand, he tossed the last receiver across the floor. His eyes followed it past the ring of dim light and out of sight. He listened for it to hit the wall, and was pleased when it didn't. Not the best way or place to plant it, but his options were limited with no furniture in the room. Hopefully BA would get a signal from it.

An instant later, he was jerked to his feet by the mammoth man at the door whose reflexes had – thankfully – not been fast enough to stop Face from falling into the table. Stumbling, reeking of alcohol, and with his eyes rolling back in his head, he slurred something only half-coherent about the bathroom.

"Get him out of here!" one of the men ordered.

His feet barely touched the floor as he was dragged out into the hall. "Wait!" he cried, glancing around with a confused and frantic look as they passed the bar's patrons. "Wait, I gotta take a leak, man! I gotta –"

The man carrying him kicked the front door open and threw him headfirst out into the street. He rolled a few times before he came to a stop. The man, still at the door, pointed after him. "Stay the fuck outta here!" he bellowed. "I catch you in here again, I'll pound your head in!"

The door clapped closed again and Face remained still for a moment before pulling himself up and glancing around. Only a few shaky steps later, the car pulled up beside him. "You alright, kid?" Hannibal asked as he slipped into the passenger seat.

"I'm fine," Face answered, grabbing the bottle of water Hannibal offered him. "I just hope he can get a signal. There was no place to hide that last one."

**1969**

"We'll hide a gun within your reach," Hannibal said. "And there will be snipers watching you the entire time."

Face said nothing, his attention on the passing buildings as the Jeep headed away from the base, toward the VC-controlled bar. Hannibal was still talking. Face didn't even hear him until he caught his name again.

"Face?"

"Huh?"

"Are you okay with this?"

Face raised a brow as he looked up at his commanding officer. "Standing out in front of a bunch of VC as bait and waiting for them to shoot me? Why shouldn't I be okay with that?"

Hannibal studied him for a long moment, ignoring the sarcasm on the chance that he might get a real answer if he simply waited. Face caught the look, and sighed as he turned away again. "Yeah, Hannibal. I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"What do you want me to say?" Face asked. "No?"

"You could."

Face considered it for a moment, and shook his head. "You were the one who asked me why I joined SOG."

"The adrenaline," Hannibal recalled. "I remember."

"Yeah, well…" Face sighed deeply as he involuntarily caught the eye of an American soldier on the sidewalk, and looked away quickly. "You can't get much more adrenaline than this."

Hannibal didn't answer. Face was glad for the silence as he shut his eyes, and let the involuntary memory play through his mind.

_ "You're requesting a transfer to CCN?" Captain Rikland sounded both amused and concerned._

_ Tem stared at him, his gaze unwavering. "Yes, sir."_

_ "Can I ask why?"_

_ Tem hesitated. After a long, uneasy silence, he looked down briefly. "Just following some advice, sir."_

_ "From Sergeant Young, I suspect."_

_ Tem looked up again, straightening a bit. That question seemed very direct, and Tem was immediately wary of it. "As a matter of fact, Captain, yes. It was Sergeant Young's suggestion."_

_ Rikland studied him for a long moment, his expression serious. Then, finally, he lowered his eyes and cleared his throat. "Sergeant Young is dead, Tem."_

_ For several, lingering seconds, the words didn't sink in. Then Rikland saw the realization creep into the kid's eyes. He sat up at the desk, cleared his throat again. "If you still want to go, I'll authorize it. But I'll tell you the same thing I told him." He paused, studying the young sergeant's stunned, hurt expression. "I'll be sorry to see you go. Most guys who go up there don't come back. Those who do tend to come back in body bags."_

_ Tem finally regained his composure, swallowed hard, and shook his head. "I'm not afraid of dying, sir."_

_ "So you still want to do this?"_

_ The boy hesitated, but only for a moment before he nodded firmly. "Yes."_

_ "Alright."_

_ Tem didn't move as he watched Rikland sign the orders. As he handed them over, he stood and gave a formal salute. Tem returned it. "Good luck out there, Sergeant," Rikland said quietly._

_ Tem nodded, then turned away. But he paused at the door, and turned back. "Sir?"_

_ Rikland glanced up from his desk, where he'd just sat down. "Yeah?"_

_ Tem hesitated. "Do you know… how he died?"_

_ Rikland paused. "He died somewhere in South Vietnam – I didn't ask where. With Hannibal Smith's team. They didn't recover his body."_

_ For a long moment, Tem waited for more. But there was nothing more to tell. Finally, he nodded. "Thank you."_

_ Without another word, he turned and stepped out into the humid, night air._

"Face?"

He snapped to attention, out of the distant memory, as Hannibal's voice cut through. "Huh?"

The Jeep had stopped, and Hannibal was staring at him, wondering why he hadn't gotten out yet. "We're here."

"Oh." Face shook his head as his feet hit the dirt. "Sorry."


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

"Man, where did you put that transmitter?" BA demanded, holding the headphones tightly against his ear. "I can't hardly hear a thing!"

Face sighed, sipping from the bottle of water as he leaned against the wall inside the van. He hadn't been thrilled about the bulky black van when BA had bought it. But it did provide a mobile workstation that was worth having. Even if the exhaust fumes got to be intoxicating and the back of the van was like a hotbox in the summer sun, it gave them a place to set up inconspicuously. Sometime soon, BA kept saying, he would buy a _real _van.

"There wasn't exactly a good place to hide it," he answered, knowing which of the three transmitters BA was talking about. "I'm just glad you're getting a signal at all."

"Hey, Face, you focus your eyes yet?" Murdock teased with a slight grin.

Face glared back. "Very funny." It had only been one drink. But it had gone down way too fast, and Face wasn't used to hard liquor anymore. Ultimately, he had to admit he was a little lightheaded.

The side of the van was open, and Hannibal stepped into view carrying a two-liter of Coke and a bag of ice. "Got anything?" he asked as he set them both down on the floor of the van.

"Yeah." BA handed the headphones over to Murdock so that he could continue listening while BA gave his report. "They play twice a week. By invitation only. They got another player, Jerry Cocker, who on vacation in Florida. Left 'em a player short."

"Sounds promising," Hannibal observed. "You get any of the names of the players who are there?"

"One of 'em is named Roy. Rest I don't know. Bartender's brother is a cop. He in the bar now. They just about to finish their game."

"Do they go for broke?" Face asked, curious.

"Last guy went all in at a hundred."

"That's not so much," Jessica observed, confused.

BA looked at her. "Hundred thousand," he clarified.

Her face fell. "Oh."

"When's their next game?"

"Wednesday night. Seven o'clock."

"Face," Hannibal started. Face raised a brow in his direction. "How much cash can we have available before then?"

He frowned. "As in… how many investments can we back out of so that we can gamble with them?" Clearly, he was not thrilled with that idea. "Are you talking about going for broke? Or keeping a safe cushion just in case everything goes wrong?"

"How much _can _we liquefy?" Hannibal clarified. "Not to say that we would."

"Well we _can_…" He considered it for a moment. Stocks, bonds, investments that were better left alone for a few more years. They kept about twenty-five thousand in cash readily available. Beyond that, the money was tied up and he didn't like the idea of cashing in on it. They'd only had enough money to start investing for about six months. Before then, they'd lived hand to mouth. And he'd be damned if he went back to that. "Fifty thousand?" he guessed. "Maybe? I can make a few calls and find out, but…" He frowned deeply.

"Relax, Face," Hannibal assured him with a smile. "We'll get it back. Trust me."

The frown remained fixed. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

**1969**

"Wait a minute." Major Steven Wren's brow was furrowed deeply as he stared at Hannibal. "You want to send an _American _in there to negotiate?"

Face and Hannibal exchanged glances, then both looked back at the 40-something soldier who was staring blankly at them. "Yes," Hannibal said simply.

Wren gaped. Then, picking his jaw up off the ground, he turned to the man who was calmly but seriously watching. "General, I don't mean to speak out of turn…" He hesitated on nearly every word. "But this is suicide."

If Face was concerned about his impending suicide, he didn't show it. Nor did General Westman, who merely answered with a calm, "He's done it before, Major."

Face just smiled as the MP stood there gaping. He unbuttoned his shirt, turning his back to Cruiser. His neck and shoulders were wet from the heat, and even after drying them, the tape didn't want to stick. "Don't worry about it, Sergeant," Hannibal said as Cruiser tried to pat it down over the gun taped just beneath the collar of Face's shirt. "He's got to be able to get it off anyways."

"Yeah, but we don't want it fallingoff."

"Just what are you going to say to them?" Wren demanded.

"To be honest?" Face glanced up. "My guess is that they're a couple of young VC kids in over their heads." As Cruiser finished, he shrugged his shirt back onto his shoulders. "The Viet Cong are terrorists, but this just isn't how they work. They blow up bars and toss grenades into crowds but they don't go in and take over a building and hole up in there."

Wren grit his teeth. "I know that, Lieutenant." He seemed thoroughly insulted by the implication that it had to be explained to him. "What I don't understand is what you plan to do about it."

Wren had made his opinion clear from the start: storm the front door. People could die in the crossfire; they could die in the jungle, too. Either way, they were all ultimately there to die anyways. On either side of Face, his entire team was checking weapons. Face and the translator – an ARVN lieutenant – needed only to buy a few minutes of time, to allow the team access to the building without intervention from the AK-47s that occasionally peeked out the door at anyone who came too close. As long as they – and their operators – were focused on Face, they would be less aware of the impending attack.

"Are you sure you don't want more men?" Westman asked in his thick southern drawl. "We've got plenty." He gestured around him at the small crowd of men in fatigues who had gathered to watch these proceedings. Face was acutely aware of the audience. In a way, he appreciated it. It made it impossible to show – or even feel – fear.

"No," Hannibal said firmly. "If we go in there with automatic weapons blasting, hostages are going to get killed. Full manual _only_." He glanced around at his team, to make sure they understood, and got a few nods. But nobody looked up. Hannibal turned back to Westman. "I know my team, General. I know what they're capable of. I don't want to take men I don't know."

It was a simple explanation. Westman required no more. He nodded in agreement, and Face made lingering eye contact with the translator. "You ready?"

The man put his shoulders back and nodded firmly, hiding his securities well. "Yes," he answered with confidence.

With one more deep breath, Face turned and exchanged glances with Hannibal. There was no hesitation, no "are you sure?" from either of them. It was do or die.

**1978**

The wad of cash caught the bartender's eye as Hannibal dropped a bill on the bar. "What'd you do, rob a bank?"

Hannibal laughed. "Son, I _own _the bank." He extended a hand. "Sam Orchard. Orchard Food Products."

The bartender shook his head, unfamiliar. Hannibal shrugged. "Eh, never mind. We're still working on expanding to the west coast. Been out east lately?"

"Can't say as I have."

"Ah, well. We got the monopoly out there on fresh, homegrown fruit."

"I've got a brother lives in Georgia," the man sitting on the stool beside him offered.

"Really!" Hannibal smiled broadly. "Get that man a drink, bartender! That's right where I'm from!" He turned and shook hands with the man. "Sam Orchard."

"Adam Strash," the man answered.

"What're you drinkin'?"

"Wild Turkey."

"Well, make that two," Hannibal gestured to the bartender. He pushed the bill across the carved, old bar top. "This oughtta cover it."

All heads turned as BA stepped into the bar. The floorboards creaked under his weight and the bar's occupants shrank back noticeably. "Aw, never mind him," Hannibal assured the man sitting next to him. "That's my bodyguard. Harmless really… 'less you're intendin' on violence."

"No, no, not at all," Strash answered with an uncomfortable laugh.

Hannibal directed his attention back to the bartender. "Hey, I had a friend of mine told me I oughtta come here an' fill in for him a couple days while he on vacation. Name's Jerry Cocker?"

The bartender glanced at him and raised a brow. "I didn't know Jerry was sending anybody our way. Usually he lets everyone know before he sends over guests."

"Aw, well, he might've forgotten to mention it before he left for Florida," Hannibal answered confidently. "You know how it is. But I can always give 'im a ring if you need to talk to him…" He was already rising from his barstool. "You got a phone?"

The bartender eyed him carefully. Hannibal's smile remained confident as he took a drink. "He told me to find Roy. That ain't you, is it?"

Clearly wary of the unfamiliar man's confidence, the bartender shook his head. "No. But I'll let him know you're here."

Hannibal smiled broadly, raising his glass in a gesture of appreciation. "Thanks a bunch," he offered before downing the rest of the liquor.

**1969**

Face was quite some distance away when he started calling out towards the bar. "_Khong ban_!" The cry of "don't shoot" was the only bit of his quick Vietnamese lesson he actually remembered. It was, quite simply, too important to forget.

Hands above his head, he walked slowly, watching the windows and doors carefully for anything that looked like a threat. The snipers on the rooftops around him were watching too. He had a feeling that was supposed to reassure him. But the simple fact was, if the men in there opened fire, he was going to die.

"_Khong ban_," he called again as he saw the curtains move. "I just want to talk."

The translator, a half-step behind him, called out in Vietnamese. The curtains rustled again, but no one fired. "Just want to talk," he repeated. "Can we talk?"

Negotiations with the enemy never went well. Not here. The last man he'd seen try to negotiate was dead before he could utter _chu hoi_. Of course, he hadn't been wearing a bullet proof vest. And he'd been in an active combat zone. _Just how much reassurance is that supposed to provide?_

Hannibal knew it. He knew damn well the risk that he was taking. If Face had cared just a little bit more about the prospect of returning home, he would almost be offended that his life was worth so little. But he didn't care. And he wasn't offended. He was numb, void of feeling as he stood toe to toe with death. If he died, he died. What difference did it make anyways?

"I want to talk," he yelled again, pausing this time until he got an answer. He was easily within range of their weapons, and he didn't want to push his luck. To say he didn't care if he lived was not to say that he didn't care about the success of the mission – however abnormal it may be.

After several long moments of silence, a voice finally called back. "He says he doesn't want to talk," the translator relayed in perfect English. "He has nothing to say to you."

But in the answering call, he _was _talking. Face could work with that. He turned his head toward the translator, but kept his eyes on the building. "Ask him if there's anyone he _does_ want to talk to."

The exchange was filled with tense silence. When the translator spoke again, he kept his voice low. "He says he doesn't want to talk to anyone. He sounds… unsure. The way he worded it. He's maybe… afraid?"

"Does he sound as young to you as he does to me?" Face asked quietly.

"He does sound young, yes."

"Ask him if there's anyone else who might want to talk to me."

Out of the corner of his eye – he was careful not to look – he saw Cruiser scaling the side of the building two rooftops over. Hannibal was on the other side, moving quickly. "He says to move back or he'll kill you," the translator said with impeccable calm in spite of the fact that if the enemy fired on Face, they'd almost certainly hit them both.

Face suddenly realized how loud his heart was beating in his ears. The adrenaline flowing through his veins was almost euphoric. "He's scared, isn't he?" he whispered. He could hear the waver in the boy's voice, even if he couldn't understand the words.

"That doesn't mean he won't shoot," the translator warned softly.

_Let him. Let him fucking shoot me. Maybe the colonel would actually feel guilty enough to care._

Face's eyes remained locked on the empty doorway. "Tell him that the only reason he's still alive is because he has innocent people in there," Face said flatly. As the translator relayed, Face paused only briefly before continuing. "And tell him that if he won't talk to me, we're going to assume that he has nothing to bargain with. And blow that building to holy hell."

Face was glad when the translator's voice didn't falter on the bluff. It was _so _damn much harder to read someone he could neither see nor understand. But he'd find out pretty quick if he'd made the right call. Either the boy would relent, or he'd start shooting.

Long moments passed. On the rooftop of the bar, Hannibal and Cruiser were both in position and waiting on him. He was waiting on the damn VC.

_Make your fucking move already._

Finally, the voice came back. "What kind of bargain?" the translator asked.

Bingo.

"Tell him to come to the door. I'm out in the open. I can't try anything. I know he has guns in the windows and he can put those on me too. I'll come within easy range. All I want is for him to come outside and talk."

Wait. Silence. Then, slowly, the door opened. A boy no older than thirteen peeked around the corner with an AK-47 in his hands. Curtains shifted. Guns appeared. As soon as they did, Hannibal and Cruiser had a lock on their targets' positions. They dropped off the roof to the top windows at the front of the building, rappelling down and disappearing inside. Face held his breath. No sound. No shots. Phase one, complete. They were in.

**1978**

"You boys friends of Jerry's?" Hannibal asked, rising to meet the two men who'd emerged from the hallway to meet him. He offered a broad smile as he extended a hand, not waiting for an answer. "Sam Orchard. Orchard Food Products?"

"Never heard of you," the man on the left informed, eyeing him warily.

"Well, I ain't usually around these parts too often," Hannibal answered, not letting the hostility deter him in the least. "Pleasure to be here, though. Nice to meet you. Which one of you is Roy?"

"That's me," a third man stated, stepping between them. "What can I do for you?"

Roy carried himself like a man in charge – gaze steady and shoulders back. At 5'9, he was probably 250 pounds. None of that was muscle. But if he had any insecurities, he certainly didn't let them show. "Roy, I'm a friend of Jerry Cocker's. He told me y'all dabble in a little poker up here now and then. I was passin' through and he told me he's out of town for a few weeks. You got room for one more?"

Roy looked him over, a scrutinizing gaze up and down. Then he looked over at the bar. Hannibal couldn't see behind him to check the bartender's response. But as Roy looked back at him, he smiled and extended a hand. "Friend of Jerry's you say?"

"That's right," Hannibal smiled back, shaking his hand.

"What did you say your name was?"

He was in.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

"Call."

The men played well. Hannibal would've expected nothing less. The money on the table was enough to buy a large house in a decent neighborhood, anywhere in the Midwest. Hannibal didn't gamble regularly – it was a forced dislike – but he was good at it. All it took was an ability to lie straight-faced, and to hide that little rush of adrenaline that came from seeing the hand he was dealt – for better or worse.

He'd gone ten thousand down to give them a sense of security. Since then, he'd gone twenty thousand up. It had been a little over an hour.

"Mr. Smith?"

Hannibal resisted the urge to turn at the name. Nobody would be calling him that – not here. He glanced around quickly – but ever so calmly – to see who would respond. It was Roy, with an irritated glare. "What?"

Hannibal turned his head, glancing to the door where BA stood to one side and another man just as large stood to the other. Between them, the bartender was poking his head into the room. "Phone call for you."

"I'm not taking any phone calls right now."

"It's Johnson. He says they found Paulie."

The hush that fell over the room was almost eerie. A moment later, and without a word, Roy stood up from the table and started for the door, leaving his cards facedown. Hannibal watched him follow the bartender out of the room, then glanced back at the other players.

"Paulie?" he asked curious. He didn't expect he'd receive an answer, and was surprised when he did.

"Paulie Summers owes all of us a lot of money," Gene explained, holding his hands over his cards. There was fire in his eyes as he spoke, but his hands remained steady. "Especially Roy."

Paulie Summers had to be Jessica Summers' sister, if Hannibal had to guess. If he'd been found, they needed to step this up, and get to him first. "Ah, see, now that's why I don't let a man play on credit," Hannibal said. "Never ends well. Never does."

"We didn't think he was on credit. He had papers – the deed to a house. Turns out they were phony."

"Phony papers, you say? That's a damn shame." He shook his head slowly. "Damn shame. What's this world coming to when you can't even hold an honest poker game? Buddy?" He looked to the door, and BA straightened. "Would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of water from the bar? I'm feeling a mite bit parched."

"Yes, Mr. Orchard."

In a moment, BA was gone – to the bar and closer to the conversation that was being held there. Hannibal trusted the radio transmitters when he had to. He didn't trust them on something this important.

**1969**

Hannibal's hands were coated with hot, sticky blood. He hated that feeling. But he couldn't risk the sound of shots fired, and that made the knife simply more practical. He cleaned it on his enemy's sleeve before he stood and gave a quick glance to Cruiser. Thumbs up. Hardly a sound.

He paused to signal out the window to the crows that was watching from various, concealed locations. Five minutes. Start the countdown.

He stepped carefully, pacing alongside Cruiser, ready for anything or anyone. Knife in his dominant hand, pistol in the other. His preferred weapon was clear. No one in the hallway. No one on the stairs. They descended slowly and paused at the bottom, peeking around the corner. No one guarding hostages. No hostages to guard. Hannibal ground his teeth. Damn it. Bodies scattered across the floor. Dead? Dying? Bleeding. Spilled drinks and the smell of alcohol.

Six enemy. Two at the windows. One at the door. One pacing anxiously. Two crouched with their heads hung in their hands. Kids, all of them.

He waited.

Cruiser tapped his shoulder. Pointing back upstairs with a questioning look. Hannibal shook his head. No need. There were six, and nobody that was going to get in the way when Boston and BA came through the back door in another fifteen seconds.

The explosion shook the walls. The enemy spun towards it. Two dozen men, led by the two men from Hannibal's team, filtered into the room. It was overkill. But they couldn't have known that when they'd planned it.

"Check the bodies," he ordered. "See if anyone is still alive."

A moment later, Face stumbled through the door, still clutching the pistol that had shot the Vietnamese at the door. "You okay, Lieutenant?" Hannibal asked.

Face ignored him, looking around the room. What he saw elicited a deep, heartfelt sigh. "God damn it."

Hannibal's shoulders sagged as he knelt next to the body of Chief SOG Sandgone. No pulse. "My sentiments exactly," he said quietly.

Face was glaring daggers at Hannibal. As the colonel looked up, their gazes locked briefly. Startled by the look in his lieutenant's eyes, Hannibal sat up straighter. "Face, are you okay?"

"Fine, Colonel," Face answered, his voice ice cold. "Just fucking fine."

Without another word, he turned and walked away. Hannibal watched him go, confused, but made no attempt to follow.

**1978**

Murdock was already at the bar, but he wasn't sitting close enough to hear even Roy's half of the phone conversation. The transmitter in the card room was still working, as was the one at the bar. But neither of them would pick up the conversation either. Their only hope was that Roy would find Paulie's offense personal enough to want to take care of it himself. If he simply told whoever was on the other end of that phone to kill him, they were going to have to rethink their mission plans.

"Can I get you something?"

"Uh…" He'd been so focused on the details of his surroundings, Murdock had almost forgotten the larger picture. "Martini," he answered the bartender with a smile and a slight British accent. "Shaken, not stirred."

The bartender laughed. "You're a regular James Bond," he taunted.

The smirk on Murdock's face remained firmly in place. _You have no idea…_

BA approached the bar, and Murdock glanced at him only briefly as he stood as close as he could to where Roy was talking on the phone. Apparently, Hannibal had the same idea they did: they had to get close enough to hear what was going on.

Murdock smiled as the bartender handed him the drink, paid him, and leaned back as he raised it to his lips. Then bartender tended to BA. Mr. Orchard's right-hand-man wanted water. Then he wanted water with ice. Then it was too much ice. Then the glass was dirty. He stalled through the entire conversation, until Roy hung up the phone. Then he took the clean glass with just the right amount of ice back to the room. Murdock hid his amusement.

Roy remained at the end of the bar, talking to the bartender in hushed tones. It was too dark – and they were too far away – for him to read their lips even if he'd been really good at it. He sipped his drink and watched out of the corner of his eye as they talked for several full minutes. Then the bartender handed something across.

It wasn't the handoff that worried Murdock. It was the way that Roy immediately stiffened and looked back to the card room. _Houston, we have a problem._

After a few more words, the two of them parted ways. It was long enough for Murdock to finish his drink, and he stood, following a few steps behind Roy. But where he turned right, Murdock turned left – into the bathroom.

Thankfully, the room was empty. "I couldn't get close enough to hear anything," he said into the receiver. "But I think BA did. And if you're not gettin' anything from that transmitter on the bar… I think it's because the bartender found it."

**1969**

"General?"

Westman looked up and forced a smile as he dropped his hands to the desk, sitting up. "Come on in, John."

Hannibal stepped inside the office and shut the door behind him before walking to the chair across from the desk. "I'm sorry about Sandgone," he offered sympathetically.

Westman sighed as he stood and shook his head. "Sorry to have wasted your time."

Hannibal smiled tightly. "It's what we're paid for, remember?"

Westman chuckled as he walked to the table near the window and poured two glasses of scotch. "You couldn't pay me enough to do what your boys do," he admitted. "Most especially your unit."

Hannibal smiled and reached into his pocket for his cigar. "General, I'm not sure whether to be offended or flattered."

"Just the facts, Colonel." Westman turned back, crossed the few steps to where Hannibal was sitting, and handed one of the glasses to him. "That shit today? If I was that lieutenant?"

"That was _your _idea," Hannibal reminded him.

"Well, that wasn't quite what I had in mind."

"What did you have in mind? You could've spoke up if you had a better idea." It was an open challenge, but Hannibal said it with a smile.

"Aw, hell, I don't know." Westman glared at the floor as he tipped his drink up. Now that he was closer, Hannibal could tell that it wasn't his first.

In the long silence that followed, Hannibal frowned. "You okay, Ross?"

Westman sighed deeply and took another drink. "Why? Don't I look okay?"

"Actually, no. It's one o'clock in the morning and you're in your office." _And you're drunk._

"It's one o'clock in the morning and you're in my office, too."

"I went to your quarters first. Only came here when you didn't show." Hannibal paused for a sip of the burning liquor. "Did you forget your wife is here?"

Westman sighed. "No, I didn't forget."

"She made you dinner. Was a little pissed off when you didn't show up."

"Yeah, what else is new?"

The bitterness in his voice made Hannibal raise a brow. "If it's that bad, why'd you bring her out?"

"'Cause she wanted to come." Westman sighed again, and refilled his glass on the way back to his desk chair. "Been naggin' me about it for weeks."

"And you don't want her here?"

Westman set his drink on the desk as he sat down and covered his eyes with his hand. "She's having an affair, John."

Hannibal sipped his drink slowly, then held it aside as he raised his cigar again. "She tell you that?"

"Yes."

Hannibal didn't answer, just watched him quietly.

"Oh, I've known for years," Westman continued with a deep, heartfelt sigh. "It's nothing new. She's probably had four or five of them since I've been over here."

"So why is it bothering you now?"

Westman looked up again, letting his hand drop to his lap. "Because now she actually told me."

Hannibal held his gaze, puffing quietly on his cigar. "What else did she tell you?"

Westman laughed, without humor. "What, is that not enough?"

"She tell you who it was?"

Westman glanced up with a pained look in his eyes. "I didn't even ask."

Hannibal smiled faintly, sympathetically. "Usually that's the first question people _do _ask." He paused briefly, evaluating the look. "Or don't you want to know?"

Westman's eyes lowered, and he shook his head slightly. "It shouldn't matter. It's not much of a marriage anyway. Never has been."

Hannibal hesitated for a long moment. But it was clear that the general had nothing more to say. "So what made her decide to tell you?" Hannibal asked quietly. "Does she want a divorce?"

Westman shook his head slowly, then covered his face with his hand again. "She's pregnant, John."

Hannibal stopped, stared, and took another drink. "She didn't look it."

"She just found out."

"And it can't be yours?"

"No."

"She was out here about two months ago. The timing is about right."

Westman looked up. "We didn't share a bed."

Hannibal was silenced.

"I'm sorry," Westman sighed. "I shouldn't be unloading this on you; it's my problem. Did you need something?"

Hannibal paused for a moment, then shook his head, rising to his feet. "No. Sorry. I just figured since you were up, you might tell me where we're going in the morning. But you seem to have more important things on your mind."

"You need to talk to Colonel Mark Loun in Saigon," Westman answered, offhandedly. "Something about a wiretap, near… aw hell, I don't even remember. It's some joint Agency operation. He'll be expecting you in his office tomorrow afternoon at one." He looked up again, eyes tired. "Sorry, John, I honestly don't even remember what it was about. I'm sure he can brief you."

Hannibal smiled sympathetically. "It's alright."

"I need to talk to your lieutenant before you leave in the morning. I sent someone to go see if he was still awake but if not, don't let him leave without coming to see me."

Hannibal raised a brow. "What did he do this time?"

Westman chuckled and shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I just need his signature on the report from today."

"I'll see if I can find him." Hannibal smiled as he headed for the door. "Have a good night, Ross."

"You too."

Face was easy to find. He was standing outside the open doorway, leaning on the wall. As Hannibal stepped out into the hall, they locked eyes hard. "Westman's looking for you," Hannibal said. "I see someone already informed you of that. Shouldn't you be asleep?"

Face's stare remained fixed on Hannibal, ice cold and piercing. Startled by the intensity and determination – hostility? – in that stare, Hannibal held it, instinctively refusing to back down. He hadn't seen Face since earlier, at the bar. He'd known something was wrong then. But now, it was far more pronounced.

For a long moment, neither one of them spoke. Hannibal waited for an explanation, sensing that he would get nothing if he asked. Then Face pushed off the wall, stood up straight, and passed close enough to Hannibal to whisper and still be heard.

"Tangled web, huh, Colonel?"

Hannibal blinked, confused. "What is?"

They locked eyes again, and Face smiled in spite of the glare in his eyes. "You'd better hope to God that kid's not blond haired and blue eyed or your military career might've just reached an impasse."

Hannibal's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't have a chance to speak before Face entered the room, closing the door behind him.

1978

Face had been listening to so many things at once, he didn't even notice when the bar receiver went dead. Between Hannibal's conversation with Gene in the card room, BA's quiet relay of information into the receiver inside his jacket, an apparently unrelated conversation in the bathroom, and the audible reactions of the doomed Paulie's distraught sister, he couldn't keep it straight. Finally, he'd had to tell Jessica in no uncertain terms to shut up, flick off the receiver in the bathroom so that he couldn't hear it, and try to concentrate on BA while keeping Hannibal's voice in the background.

"He say to bring Paulie to the warehouse," BA whispered into the receiver. "Didn't say which one. I think he might've hired the guy. Didn't sound like he was talking to a friend. Sounded like business. I'm goin' back into the room now. With Hannibal."

Roy Smith had more than enough money to hire a bounty hunter – or a hit man - if his throw-away, gambling money was any indication. Door opened, door closed. "Here's your water, Mr. Orchard."

"Ah, thank you."

Casual conversation. Meaningless. Face turned the receiver for the bathroom back on. Nothing to listen to. Door open, door closed in the game room. Door open and closed in the bathroom. Murdock's voice. "If you're not gettin' anything from that transmitter on the bar… I think it's because the bartender found it."

Face frowned at those words, and the lingering silence in the game room. If the bartender found the bug, chances were pretty good that they were smart enough to figure out who'd put it there.

**1978**

The hushed words to the man standing guard beside BA had warned Hannibal that something was wrong. But before he had a chance to ask any questions, Roy had stepped forward and withdrawn a pistol from beneath his jacket. At the table, chairs turned, and everyone faced him. The gun was pointed squarely at Hannibal. With a calm that seemed completely out of place in his current predicament, he turned fully to face the man who held it. If he was surprised, he didn't show it.

"Something wrong?" he asked with a gesture that could've been a shrug.

Second gun. This one was pointed at BA, by the man standing on the other side of the door. BA gave him a growl and a threatening glare, but kept his hands where they could be seen.

"Who the hell are you?" Roy demanded, eyes fixed on Hannibal. "You a cop?"

The two other men at the table stood on cue and reached for their weapons. Hannibal wasn't surprised that they had them. He'd expected as much. He didn't answer.

"Frisk him."

BA was armed; Hannibal was not. Even if they had both had guns, they were outnumbered. The man at the door would've taken BA's full attention and Hannibal wasn't about to take on three guys with guns in an enclosed area while unarmed. At least, not while he still needed them. They were the easiest and surest way to finding Jessica's brother, and they didn't do him any good if they were unconscious.

There were other issues, too. Murdock and Face knew what was going on in here. If they _did _throw down, there would be backup. Hannibal wasn't terribly concerned about the risk. But who knew how trigger-happy these loons were, and somebody could easily get killed if they attacked in this enclosed area. Besides, if Face and Murdock were in here, getting in on the action, it meant that they were not available to be out there, looking for Paulie. Hannibal weighed all of this in the balance as he chose to comply. BA followed suit.

Roy found the gun. Then he found the transmitters. It was enough to incriminate both of them. Roy was pissed. As he crushed the devices under his feet, he leaned forward, glaring hard at Hannibal. "What the hell is this, some kind of sting operation?"

"Sting operation?" Hannibal smiled, letting his accent drop. "You sound paranoid. Is this kind of gambling illegal around here? I forget."

"Alright smartass," Roy growled. "Game's over. You and your bodyguard are both coming with me."

**1969**

Hannibal was waiting outside the door to General Westman's office when Face re-emerged. Face wasn't terribly surprised to see him there. He acknowledged him only with a brief glance as he started down the hall.

"You got something you want to say to me, kid?" Hannibal demanded, keeping pace with him.

"Not unless you need someone to clarify the situation for you." Face looked him up and down blatantly. "But you're pretty smart; I think you can figure it out."

"Figure what out?" Hannibal demanded, refusing to be baited.

Face stopped mid-step and turned toward him. "You wanna know where I stand, Colonel? Is that it? A dozen years of Catholic school; I can recite the ten commandments for you if you want."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "You've got a hell of a lot of nerve, kid."

"_I've_ got nerve?" Face laughed, and leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. "You're the one fucking your commanding officer's wife."

Hannibal grabbed his arm, opened the door to the empty office behind him, and shoved Face none-too-gently inside before stepping in behind him. Through gritted teeth and with eyes blazing, Hannibal spat at him, "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Face's expression remained emotionless, unintimidated by the colonel's looming presence in the dark room. "I'm the one with the photographs," he answered flatly, eyes black and cold.

Hannibal flinched, but kept his composure, shoulders back and eyes fixed on Face. "What photographs?"

Face didn't answer.

Hannibal glared hard at him. "What the hell are you trying to do, Lieutenant?" he growled. "Is this some sick and twisted attempt at blackmail?"

"If I wanted to blackmail you, I would've done it a long time ago, when I first got the pictures."

"I'm going to ask you one more time. _What _pictures?"

"The pictures of you and Elaine in a hotel in Saigon."

Hannibal studied him intently. Face allowed it for a moment, then he smiled. "You think I'm bluffing, Colonel?" He chuckled quietly. "I've known a lot longer than I've had the photos. I knew something was going on way back when I first joined up with this unit. You'd disappear; no one could find you. I figured you had to have a girlfriend – maybe even a wife. Didn't figure it'd be Elaine Westman."

"You still haven't answered my question," Hannibal said flatly. "What do you want?"

"How about the truth?"

"About what?"

"Elaine."

Hannibal growled. "What the hell do you expect me to say, Lieutenant?"

Face didn't answer.

"Is this some kind of a power trip for you?" Hannibal demanded, noting the slight smile that crept across the young lieutenant's lips.

"Maybe."

"Any particular reason you're feeling insecure?"

Face ignored the jab, and leaned sideways on the wall, arms crossed over his chest. "If it _was _a power trip, you oughtta understand it. Since I can't see any other reason you'd keep going to her except for the power of it."

Hannibal put his shoulders back and stood straight. "You listen to me, Lieutenant, and you –"

"You don't love her," Face interrupted.

Hannibal stopped, caught off guard for a moment. Face used the moment of surprise to continue. "You don't give a damn about her, or about the kid she's pregnant with."

"That's enough, Lieutenant," Hannibal warned.

"So it's got to be about Westman. And I gotta admit, fucking your CO's wife… that must be one hell of a ride. It's just strange to me, because I always thought you two were pretty close."

"That is _enough_!"

Hannibal's voice echoed off the bare walls of the room. Face, unmoved and still expressionless, stared back at him, waiting for him to continue. It took Hannibal several seconds to speak again. "Is this your way of asking for a transfer, Lieutenant? Back to the States, maybe?"

"No." Face pushed off of the wall and stood straight. "This is my way of telling youto be careful."

"What?" Hannibal was surprised by the answer and decidedly untrusting of the situation.

Face's eyes narrowed. "From the day that I joined this unit, you have made yourself very hard to trust. But I can handle that. I came here to die; I don't care who pulls the trigger. But there are very few things that I can think of that are stupider, and more detrimental to this team,than having an affair with General Westman's wife."

Hannibal growled. "If you have a problem with-"

"If you go down, Hannibal," Face interrupted, stepping up, "you take every last one of us down with you. And I have too goddamn much to lose to just sit back and watch while you play with fire like a fucking pyromaniac, thinking you could never get burned!"

Hannibal glared back at him, well aware of the threat in his advancement. "You want to take a swing at me, Lieutenant?" he challenged. "Is that where this is headed?"

"Would it help to get my point across?"

"Whatever you think you know about my relationship with Elaine, it doesn't concern you - or the rest of the team - in the least."

"It concerns me if I know about it."

"That was _your _doing, Lieutenant. You're the one who inserted yourself into the situation."

"Yes, I did. And if you're expecting an apology, you've got another thing coming."

"So where's this going?" Hannibal demanded. "If that's _really _what you want – for me to be more careful – then why the hell would you even take pictures in the first place?"

"Right now, it is what I want," Face said coldly. The implied threat was clear, but he reiterated it again. "And for now, it's all that I want. But if I can't get that from you, I will blow that goddamn whistle so fast, you'll be on your way back to the States faster than you can file the paperwork for my discharge."

Face reached for the doorknob, and pulled the door open with one final glare in Hannibal's direction. "Think about it," he shot. "Sir."

Without another word, he turned and walked away, slamming the door behind him.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

"What do you wanna do, Face?" Murdock asked, crouched down in the back of the van. He had one ear up to a set of headphones, listening to the card room. The only sound was from the original transmitter, on the floor where it couldn't pick up much. The other two had been destroyed.

Face had another set of headphones, and he waited for a long pause before taking his mind off of the conversation in the room. Though he had no way of seeing into the room, he was pretty sure guns were pointed all around.

Face had been debating what to do since Murdock had come back out of the bar. On the one hand, Hannibal and BA could hold their own against four men, even if those four men were armed; he was fully confident in that. On the other, if Roy called in reinforcements or moved them somewhere, it could pose a bigger problem. And there was still another matter to consider: the mission.

If he'd thought - even for a moment – that he was hanging his team out to dry, his choice would be clear. But he didn't think that. If Hannibal felt threatened, all he had to do was say the word and he knew they'd storm the place with guns blazing. But he hadn't said anything of the sort and he knew the score as well as they all did. It wasn't hard to figure out what he wanted – and expected – them to do.

Face set the headphones aside, leaving Murdock to monitor the situation on the inside. "Jessica?"

She sat up straight as Face turned to her. "Yeah?"

"They said they'd found your brother," he reminded her. "We need to get to him first. So I need you to think: Where would he go?"

She put her hand up to her face and ran it back through her hair. "Geez, I don't know…" She was quiet for a few minutes, and he let her think. Finally, she dropped her hand. "He had a girlfriend," she offered. "She might know where he is."

"If you two wanna go," Murdock offered, "I'll stay here with BA and Hannibal."

Face glanced at the worried expression Jessica wore. "How far away does this girlfriend live?" he asked.

"Other side of town," Jessica answered.

Face had left his car in a parking garage, where it wouldn't attract attention to their stakeout. He now wished that he hadn't.

"So we'll need to call a cab." He pointed. "There's a payphone right over there."

"I'll go."

Jessica was already opening the door of the stuffy van, stumbling out into the cooler air outside. For a moment, Face wished they could just leave the door open and get some airflow, but they couldn't risk being seen back here.

"Get the number off the payphone!" he called after her. She turned back briefly and nodded, but kept walking.

Murdock followed Face's train of thought. "If we move, I'll call back here."

"Make sure you let it ring for a while," Face advised. "People in there will recognize me. I won't be able to sit at the phone and wait."

Murdock nodded, and Face spent the last few moments in the van listening through the headphones to the conversation inside the card room. It was very one-sided; Hannibal wasn't giving them anything. That probably meant he didn't know enough about the situation to make a determination on what he wanted to say and who he wanted to be. Face realized he was leaving him to his own wits and devices. But that was okay. He had full confidence in Hannibal.

**1978**

"What do you wanna do with them, Roy?" Gene was fidgeting, nervous.

Roy debated for a long moment, eyeing his two prisoners carefully. Disarmed and kneeling with their hands behind their backs, Roy probably thought them harmless. He couldn't have been more wrong. The leg of the table was within BA's reach, and it was light and flimsy enough that he could easily have thrown it at them – even kneeling. The few seconds that they would be caught off guard would be more than enough to gain control of the situation. Hannibal and BA both knew it. Neither of them moved.

"They could be cops."

Hannibal grinned. "We could be."

"They're not cops," Roy declared, confidently. "They'd have badges."

"What if they were undercover?"

The third player – Scott – hadn't said much at all up to this point. Now, he finally offered his two cents. "Maybe they're private investigators."

"Who would've hired them?" Gene asked.

"How should I know?" Scott frowned deeply at them. "Probably that dumb bitch sister of Paulie's."

"You're getting warmer," Hannibal smirked. "Keep fishing."

"Man, I told you you shouldn't have hired those guys." Gene was definitely nervous. "They blew up a fucking house! You know the kind of heat that –"

"Shut up!" Roy ordered with a glare. "Just shut up, okay? I don't give a damn who they are." Roy turned and eyed Hannibal carefully. "I'll take care of them when I take care of Paulie.

Though he was careful not to let it show, that was just the answer Hannibal had been hoping for.

"What're you gonna do, man?" Gene asked tensely.

"Don't worry about it," Roy growled back. "Bring them!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal saw the guard from the door – who hadn't said a single word yet – shove his pistol into the back of BA's neck. BA stood, but immediately turned to face his antagonist. "Hey, man," he snapped, roughly. "Take it easy with that thing, 'fore you make me mad. You don't wanna see me mad."

Hannibal regarded him with mild interest. BA's demeanor was normally enough to intimidate any man – even an armed one. But this time, his opponent had no reaction whatsoever. It was just as well. Hannibal had no intention of using the opportunity to get away.

He had little difficulty remaining calm and collected as he was led through the bar with a gun in his ribs. A friendly smile and wave to the bartender, and he blinked at the bright sunlight outside. He didn't have to look around to see the van; it was in his peripheral vision, off to the left. He knew it would follow, at a safe distance.

He had full confidence in his team.

**1969**

There was something very wrong about the atmosphere in the team room. Cruiser had picked up on it from the moment he'd opened his eyes. Hannibal's normal insistent-but-encouraging morning rouse was instead abrasive, almost harsh. And Face, who should've been reluctantly stumbling out of bed still half-drunk from the night before, was up and out the door before any of them.

Cruiser caught up with him in the mess hall, halfway through a cup of coffee. Still bleary-eyed, Cruiser grabbed a cup of his own and lit a cigarette as he sat down across from Face. "Aren't we energetic this morning?"

Face rested his elbows on the table, coffee cup held loosely in front of his mouth as he stared at Cruiser over the top of it. "No," he replied curtly. "Hence the coffee."

"Uh huh." Cruiser took a sip of the motor oil sludge in the tin cup and winced. "And what's the logical explanation for why you bounced outta bed like it was the first day of summer vacation?"

Face didn't speak. He merely waved the coffee cup in Cruiser's direction. Cruiser raised a brow at the dismissive gesture. What had started as mild curiosity could now safely be called a nagging interest. Face being cryptic and guarded was nothing new. Face being cryptic and guarded over what should've been a quick and meaningless explanation to the effect of "I was already awake"... now _that _was something to look into.

He didn't have a chance to ask again. Face's eyes darted to the door, and Cruiser glanced up as Hannibal entered the mess hall. He shot a lingering gaze at Face on his way to the coffee, but didn't say anything. Cruiser raised a brow as he glanced at Face. The brief stare-down said volumes.

"What the hell's going on between you and Hannibal?"

Face shook his head, looking away. "Tactical disagreement," he said simply

Cruiser studied him carefully. "Tactical disagreement?" He repeated the words like they left a bad taste in his mouth. "Gee, I never saw that one coming."

Face glared at him briefly, but didn't answer.

Cruiser sipped his coffee again, curiously studying Face. "What the hell are you disagreeing about when we don't even know where the hell we're _going _yet?"

Face put the cup down, doing nothing to hide his irritation at the prying. "It's a generalized statement, Cruiser." The last thing he wanted was for the entire team to get dragged into this. "It doesn't concern you."

There was a warning in his voice that screamed "mind your own business". Cruiser's eyes flashed briefly at the sudden aggression - an instinctive response. But he pushed the reaction back down as he watched Face, buying himself a few seconds with a long drag from his cigarette. "Okay..."

Face glanced up at Hannibal, and watched him exit the mess hall without so much as a word to either of them. Cruiser didn't take his eyes off of Face. "Though if you're planning on bringing it with you out of this camp, it kind of does concern me," Cruiser continued intently. "Last thing I want is to be on the ground with you two bickering over who's boss."

Face shut his eyes, and felt himself calm slightly. The exaggeration was probably intentional on Cruiser's part. Face and Hannibal had hashed and rehashed the chain of command when it came to battlefield tactics and the best plan of action. But on the ground, there was never any question. Ambiguity about who was in charge when two hundred million loaded guns were pointed straight at them was not only stupid, it was suicidal. Cruiser's concern was legitimate, if unnecessary.

"It's an in-camp deal," Face swore, looking up again and meeting Cruiser's eyes. "Nothing that will affect anybody in the field."

"You're sure?"

Face nodded, sincerely.

Cruiser studied him for a long moment, and finally looked away, taking another drag off his cigarette. "So it's about yesterday, then?" He paused briefly. "I gotta admit... I was a little surprised to see you go through with that without so much as a token resistance."

Yesterday. Face sighed. Yes, let him think it was about yesterday. Face looked down at the table, gave Cruiser time to fill in more blanks, let him lead the conversation. Face would give comments where required, but he didn't have any particular answer in pursuing this topic to begin with.

Cruiser watched him, prodding carefully. "Then again, if you really are looking to get yourself killed..."

"We're all waiting to die out here," Face said quietly, tracing the rim of his coffee cup.

Cruiser smiled knowingly. "Yeah, but _you_, Face..." He trailed off, shaking his head a bit as he finished his coffee. "You either have one hell of a death wish, or a hell of a lot of confidence in that CO you've got 'tactical disagreements' with."

Face watched Cruiser with narrowed eyes. If he was trying for subtle, he was failing miserably. Not only was he horrible at it, but he was trying to use it on someone who was a master at manipulating answers – even specific answers – out of his target. But Cruiser was like a goddamn pit-bull; once he latched on to something it was hell getting him off of it.

"In the field, Hannibal is as solid as they come," Face said pointedly. "You know that as well as I do."

"That was still one hell of a risk."

"It always is."

Cruiser nodded conclusively, and smirked as he sat back, dragging on his cigarette again. "Alright, so to recap, this doesn't have jack shit to do with yesterday 'cause you're just fine with what happened yesterday. So what the fuck went on last night?"

Face glared. His ire was beginning to rise from Cruiser's persistent interrogation. "What the hell, Cruiser? I thought I made it clear, this has nothing to do with you."

"Well, call it professional curiosity."

"Professional curiosity can back the fuck off," Face warned, eyes narrowed.

Cruiser chuckled. "Touchy this morning, aren't we?"

Face took another drink, answering him with one finger.

"So should I try and find another way to say it or are you gonna answer me?"

Face sighed as he looked away. Damn it, he might as well just give him something, or they'd be going around and around all morning. "Just blowing off some steam, Cruiser." He opted for the vague answer, hoping Cruiser would buy into it.

He didn't. He sat staring at Face quietly, waiting for more.

Face sighed again, and forced the irritable tone out of his voice. He had to turn this back on Cruiser if he was ever going to get out of the spotlight. "What would you be doing after something like that?"

Cruiser chuckled. "You know damn well what I'd be doing. Which you _didn't_ do, because you're perfectly sober and not too terribly hung over, either." He studied Face curiously. "You were on your way to sobering up when I passed out - which was right about the time that sergeant came looking for you. What did Westman want?"  
"Signature." Face reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

"That's it?"

"Yep."

There was no reason for Cruiser not to believe him. And in fact, he didn't challenge the simple answer. But the lingering silence made it clear that he was still waiting for more. Face stalled for a moment, finding his lighter and inspecting the scratches on it before he lit his cigarette, put the lighter back, and leaned forward on the table again, staring down at his coffee pensively. He needed something to tell him. A distraction. Westman made a good target, especially since he seemed to be an object of curiosity for Cruiser.

After a long hesitation, a few drags on his cigarette, Face glanced up again briefly. "Do you trust Westman?"

Cruiser blinked, caught off guard by the question. "I hardly know Westman." He paused briefly. "But I trust Hannibal."

Now it was Face's turn to be caught off guard. Why would anyone trust someone based solely on association? "You trust Hannibal so much that you trust Westman by default?"

Cruiser shrugged. "I trust Hannibal implicitly. Westman holds an office - he's at the top of the chain of command. I don't have to trust him to obey his orders." He paused to consider that and his brow furrowed slightly. "The fact that they come through Hannibal just makes them... easier to choke down."

"Why?" The question was instinctive; Face didn't even think before he asked it.

Cruiser shrugged. "Because it's Hannibal."

It was a simple answer, as if it needed no further explanation. Face stared. How was it that simple for him? But he could tell by the look on Cruiser's face that it really was. "You think Hannibal's flawless?" Face challenged, watching carefully for the response.

"Flawless?" Cruiser laughed. "Oh, hell no." He studied Face for a moment, and tipped his head slightly, as if he found Face's question curious. "But honest? Trustworthy? Absolutely. Capable? I'd put my life in his hands before my _own_ if I had the choice."

Face nodded slowly. "So… because he's proven himself in the field he's automatically a good person?" That seemed a bit black and white, even for Cruiser.

"I didn't say he was a good person. I said I trust him implicitly."

"How the hell do you trust him if you don't believe that he's a good person?"

Cruiser laughed. "That's that Catholic schoolboy in you talking again. Just 'cause someone is trustworthy, doesn't make them good. And just 'cause they're good, doesn't make them trustworthy."

Face glared at him. "Just answer the fucking question, Cruiser."

"I don't know." Cruiser shrugged, and leaned forward to put his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table. "How am I supposed to answer a question like that? I trust him because I know he's trustworthy. Period."

"How do you know that? How do you _really_ know that?"

"Because he's proved it."

Face paused, holding Cruiser's gaze as he let those words sink in. Cruiser watched him steadily, realizing he was waiting for more. "Oh, come on, Face." He laughed quietly. "He's proved it so many times, I can't keep count. For cryin' out loud, we're all living proof of that. None of us should still be alive this long. All that crazy shit he pulls out there and we're still alive."

"I'm not talking about on the ground. You and I both know he's damn good on the ground."

"Then what are you talking about, Face?"

"Do you _trust_ him?"

Cruiser stared at him, not sure what he was asking. "I don't know how to trust somebody more than to put my life in their hands."

Face sighed, and looked away as he dragged on his cigarette.

"But that's not what you're asking," Cruiser guessed.

Face glanced back at him, hesitated, then leaned forward. He was genuinely curious about Cruiser's so-called trust, and his perception of the man he put it in. If he could understand that, maybe he could understand what he was missing.

"You call me a fatalist," Face started carefully.

Cruiser shrugged. "You've said as much yourself."

"So clearly, putting my life on the line is not a big deal. So that's not what I'm asking."

"What is?"

Face hesitated at the pointed question. He wasn't about to show his hand, but he had to understand why Cruiser, of all people, could sit across from him and profess unquestioning trust in a man who – by all indications – did not seem to have his safety, welfare, and best interest in mind. Even in the field, Hannibal's stunts _were _death-defying. They were dangerous. The fact that they usually succeeded –for whatever reason – was besides the point. Cruiser might be able to write it off with a reference to his track record, but Face couldn't do that. He needed more.

Besides that, there was a much bigger issue on Face's mind. The question of _real _trust, which had nothing to do with battlefield tactics and orders from commanding officers. "Would you back him up?" he asked. "No matter what?"

It was Cruiser's turn to pause. "To whom and for what?"

Face shrugged. "Think of the most extreme scenario you can."

"Scenario like what?" Cruiser's tone was uneasy.

"Alright. Hypothetically." Face paused for a moment. "Say he killed a man right in front of you – shot him, point blank. An American. Would you lie to Westman for him? Would you trust that he had a damn good reason for doing it, even if you didn't understand what it was?"

Cruiser frowned deeply. He didn't like that scenario, Face could tell. It challenged everything he knew and believed about his commanding officer. It was exactly the response that Face had been hoping for.

"I'd want to know why," Cruiser finally answered.

"What if he wouldn't tell you?"

A slight smirk crossed Cruiser's lips. "If you think he wouldn't tell you, you don't know him very well."

Face was caught off guard for a moment. He considered that, processing it very carefully, stringing several different situations together for comparison. Finally, after a long drag on his cigarette, he glanced up again. "What if he didn't feel it was necessary to explain himself to you?"

"That's the same way of asking the question you just asked," Cruiser pointed out. "And my answer's still the same." Cruiser leaned forward and put his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table. Face took one last drag, and did the same. "Your problem is, Face, you don't know him. Makes all these questions moot, because you can't really trust someone you don't know. Not the way you're talking about."

"But you do."

Cruiser leaned forward on the table, arms crossed, and nodded decisively. "Yeah. I do."

"You'd lie for him."

Cruiser smiled. "Lie, kill, steal… None of which is a foreign concept to you, by the way. You would – and have – done the same thing."

"But for a different reason. Never just out of blind trust."

"Trust is never blind, Face." He paused briefly. "You put trust in a person, not in the way they act in a given situation."

Face frowned as he considered that carefully.

Cruiser sighed. "Look, war fucks things up, Face. Everything we think about, every single scenario we come up with, it's always extreme. We all know what it feels like to kill, to die. And doing it for someone you don't even know, hell, that's no big deal."

"That's very deep," Face said dryly.

"Think about it this way." Cruiser stood, grabbing his coffee cup and leaning on the table. "Would you follow him to hell and back even if he wasn't your commanding officer? If he was just your friend?"

"No," Face said without thought.

"I would."

Face looked up and met Cruiser's eyes. The man was dead serious. He actually meant that.

Cruiser smiled. "And that's the difference between you and me," he said lightly, clacking the tin cup on the table before turning away.

Face watched him go silently, and leaned forward on the table with his head in his hands.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

A/N to my anonymous reviewer:

I normally try and take the time to answer reviews, but since you posted anonymously, I'm not able to do that. And your comment is worth a reply.

I'm not sure how to make the timelines clearer. It was certainly a challenge to make them mesh in the first place. The next book, called Push Me, is actually set entirely in VN for this very reason - the story is just too complex to be interrupted with an "A-Team format" story (get hired, build stuff, blow it up, save the farm, happily ever after). Actually, if I'm not mistaken, I think this book was the last wherein I even attempted it. The remaining (13) books may deal with two timelines… but it's all one story. It was that whole "You MUST write an A-Team format story so that people will read!" thing. But at this point, if you're not reading, you're not going to read (and I'd rather you started with one of these two books than anywhere else in the series) and if you are reading, you've realized that the focus of the story is not to save the farm, but the deep and meaningful development of the characters. We've got five seasons worth of "save the farm" and a fair amount of fanfiction. I very much appreciate any writer who writes it well, but it's not my cup of tea.

That said, this was sort of an odd book to write for the dynamic between Face and Hannibal. Face is YOUNG here - just a kid. When I started writing this, I found myself looking at my seventeen-year-old brother and going, "THAT'S how old Face was when he was in Vietnam?" He's young, he's immature, and he doesn't trust. This isn't the Face we see in the show. (Hence the stark contrast between the past and present storylines.) This is the Face who had to grow into that person. How did he develop that sense of trust we see in the show? How does he understand it? What does it mean to him? These are the questions I sought to answer in The Nature of Trust. And to do that, I had to get into the mind of a seventeen-year-old in a war zone with a history of rejection and/or perceived emotional neglect and explore a relationship which by its very nature is bound and determined to be dysfunctional from the start.

The question of why Face does ANYTHING he does in this book is really the point of the story. Because my characters never just do things at random. Everything they do is meant to say something about who they are at that point in their lives.

Thanks for reading!

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

Face paid the cab driver and stepped out of the car in front of a rundown house with peeling white paint on the wood siding. It was old – Victorian style – and had been partitioned into several residences. Jessica chewed her lip as she walked to the door on the left. "This is it."

"How well do you know this woman?" Face asked, checking his tie with one hand and using his other to run his fingers though his hair.

"I don't, really," Jessica answered. "I mean… I'll recognize her, but I think we've only talked twice."

"In that case, mind if I do the talking?"

"Not at all."

"What's her name?"

"Cindy Barnett."

Face looked for a doorbell, but it was hanging off the wall and he doubted it would actually work. After a quick glance at Jessica, he put his shoulders back, his head up, and a smile on his face as he knocked on the door.

It took several minutes, and several attempts at knocking before the door finally opened. A rail-thin woman with sunken eyes who looked to be about fifty-years-old answered the door. Startled, Face glanced quickly to Jessica, but she nodded to confirm that this was, in fact, the woman they were looking for. Face turned back to her as she slurred a half-coherent, "Can I help you?"

"Cindy Barnett?" Face asked.

She frowned, and leaned on the door, gripping it for support. "Who's askin'?"

The door had been open for several seconds now, and suddenly the smell hit him – vodka, cigarettes, and marijuana mixed with body odor and mildew. He almost gagged, and immediately reconsidered his plan to go into the house. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a wallet on the inside pocket. He noticed the way her eyes couldn't track as he flashed a badge at her – much less would she be able to read it in that brief time. He could give her any line he chose.

"Jason Porter," he offered. "I'm looking for Paulie Summers?"

Her eyes slid closed as she swayed a little, unsteady on her feet. "Paulie ain't here."

"Know where I might find him?"

"How the hell should I know?" she slurred. "I ain't got a –"

"Cin, who is it?"

The male voice from inside the house made Jessica straighten noticeably, and she leaned a little closer to whisper to Face. "That's him."

Cindy pushed off the door and almost fell over backwards as she spun. "You dumbass! They the cops lookin' fer you, you stupid –"

She was cut off by the sound of pots crashing, and Face peered around the door just in time to see them hit the floor in the kitchen as Paulie scrambled past, racing for the back door and tripping over the piles of garbage and clutter all over the floor. One look at the inside of the house – the roach-covered walls, mice scurrying on the floor, and the winding track he'd have to navigate through, and Face opted to go around back and head him off.

"Stay here!" he called to Jessica as he crossed the porch in three strides, vaulted over the railing, and hit the ground in a run up the driveway. There was a chain-link fence separating him from the backyard, and he jumped it without even slowing. Again, he hit the ground running and quickly located his target. A sidewalk ran between the backyards of this row of houses and the other houses that backed up against them. The gate leading out to it was still open, and Face headed out after the man.

He was a little surprised by how fast the guy could run. But Paulie apparently didn't know how to pace himself, and at a full sprint, he tired quickly. Face caught up by the time they reached the end of the row and grabbed the man's arm, shoving him against the chain link fence of one of the yards.

"Paulie Summers?"

"Lemme go, man! Lemme go!"

The same smell that had been in the house was all over him. Again, Face nearly gagged. With a tight grip on his shirt, Face led him back the way they'd come. "Do you or your girlfriend have a car, Paulie? We're going for a little ride."

**1969**

"_That _car?"

Cruiser laughed. "What's the matter? You don't like that car?"

"I said I could get _a _car. You didn't specify that it had to be _that_ car."

"What's the matter, Face?" Cruiser taunted. "Out of your league?"

Face turned to glare at him, then glanced back at the restaurant the car was parked out in front of. He took a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair, and pulled his gun from the waistband of his pants, handing it to Cruiser.

"Hold that for me."

"What're you doing?" Cruiser asked curiously, watching him disarm.

Face raised a brow. "You know who that car probably belongs to, don't you?" Parked in front of that particular restaurant, Face had a pretty good idea.

"Actually, I hadn't thought about it." Cruiser was searching for places to conceal the weapons Face kept handing him.

"They're going to frisk me when I walk in there."

"Do _you _know whose car that is?" Cruiser asked, curious.

Face didn't answer, just tucked his shirt back in, glanced both ways over his shoulder to check who was watching him, then headed across the street. Leave it to Cruiser to test his skill – and his pride - with something that might very well get him killed in the process of obtaining.

"_Bonjour_." Face smiled as he stepped through the door. Immediately his path was blocked by several guns. The fact that he was in civilian clothes rather than fatigues precluded his being shot, but he was certainly not welcomed.

"{Who are you?}"

"{I'm here to speak to Mr. Tao.}"

The two men in front of him both looked him up and down. As they scrutinized, he scanned the restaurant. Dark. Still, he caught the gaze of the man seated in the far booth, right where he knew he would be. He smiled and waved.

"{What is your name?}" the guard demanded as Mr. Tao returned the wave and the smile and gestured for the waiter.

"Templeton Peck," Face answered confidently.

"{Is Mr. Tao expecting you?}"

Out of the corner of his eye, Face watched the waiter approach. "{I think he is now.}"

Quiet words in Vietnamese, and the guards let him pass. He smiled at them as he walked by, surprised that they hadn't even bothered to check him for weapons. Careless. Good thing he wasn't here to start trouble.

"Monsieur Peck!" The short, heavyset man smiled and rose to his feet as Face approached the table. "{Pleasure to see you.}"

"Monsieur Tao." Face shook hands with the man and cast a lingering glance at the woman seated beside him.

"{You remember my daughter, Catalina.}"

Face smiled at her. "Mademoiselle." She offered a hand and he bent to kiss the backs of her fingers. "{It's a pleasure as always.}"

"{The pleasure is mine.}"

"_S'il vous plait_." Tao gestured to the table. "{Sit with us.}"

As Face sat down, he could feel Catalina's eyes on him. Shoulders back, head high, he radiated confidence. He didn't mind her stare in the least. Out of the corner of his eye, he was watching her as well – the way her fingers traced up and down the stem of her wine glass, her knowing smile, batting lashes. Her flirting was not covert. And not unexpected.

"{So what can I do for you?}" Tao asked.

Face hesitated for just a moment, leaning back as the waiter set a glass of water in front of him, then turned away. "{Actually… nothing.}" Face smiled as he glanced across the table. "{I was in town and thought I'd stop by and say hello.}"

Tao frowned. "{Now that doesn't sound like you.}"

Face chuckled quietly, and sipped his water. After a moment's pause, he nodded. "{Okay, you're right.}" He cut his eyes to the table, hesitating. "{My old supplier has a shipment coming in from Thailand.}" Face folded his hands on the table in front of him. "{Those days are over for me since I got busted. My commanding officer watches me like a hawk. But I told my guy that I'd look around and see who might be in the market.}"

Tao was quiet for a long moment, nodding slowly. "{How much?}"

"{About fifty kilos.}"

Tao nodded again. "{I might be willing to take a look at it.}"

"{My supplier is a bit… cautious. He may want some sort of collateral. A show of good faith.}"

"{I'm sure we can work something out,}" Tao said dismissively.

It took effort to keep the smile in place. Tao wasn't taking the bait, and Face was running out of lines.

"{Is that all?}" Tao asked with a smile.

Face hesitated a moment, thinking fast, and let his eyes shift noticeably to the young woman seated across from him. His smile widened as he dropped his head a fraction. "{I had also heard a rumor that your lovely daughter was with you, and thought I might ask her to join me for dinner.}"

Catalina smiled back, and looked expectantly at her father. Face waited. He didn't expect Tao to say no. It wouldn't be the first time he had taken Catalina out, though if Tao tried to verify or thought to pursue Face's supplier, it could well be the last. Face had been out of that business for months, and his ties had long been cut. Tao wasn't stupid; he'd figure that out. Hopefully by that time, Face would be long gone. With the car.

Of course, he hadn't the slightest idea how taking Catalina out was going to help him get that car. He was just going to have to play that part by ear.

**1978**

Jessica was inside the house. She met Face at the back door. "Jessie! How ya been?" The drunken slur from Paulie was ignored.

"Face, there's men outside," she said quickly. Face glanced over her shoulder and saw the girlfriend standing in the center of the cluttered living room, looking lost and confused. The front door rattled as someone pounded on it, and a male voice demanded entrance. "I think they're here for Paulie. I saw them get out of the car and I came in here when –"

"Come here," Face ordered the woman in the living room, cutting Jessica off. If these were the same over-the-top hired hands who'd blown up Jessica's house, there was no telling what they would do this time.

But instead of moving quickly Cindy just stared at him as if she didn't understand.

"Now!"

No time. Guns rattled, and Face immediately and instinctively pushed Jessica to the floor. Paulie had the sense to duck down as well. His girlfriend didn't get down. Out of the corner of his eye, Face saw her crumple to the floor without so much as a cry of pain. No time to check on her – not that he thought she could've possibly survived that. Now that the front door was riddled with bullets, it collapsed easily under the weight of the three men outside.

Face caught a quick glance at them and did a double take. One of them, he recognized – the man from the car. The other two were taller, moderately built but certainly not the most intimidating gun-toting hired muscle Face had ever encountered. Whoever they were, Face was not about to stick around and ask for an autograph.

Jessica was already moving out into the backyard, but Paulie seemed frozen in place. Scrambling to his feet again, Face reached for his gun with one hand and used the other to shove the man out after Jessica. "Go!" he yelled at him. Finally, Paulie moved.

Using the frame of the back door as a shield, Face ducked down and emptied his entire clip in the direction of the men. He was outgunned, and he knew it. As the men paused to look for cover, he turned and sprinted, catching up with Jessica and her brother just outside the yard.

"Run!"

They would be out in the open on the sidewalk. Jessica and the already-winded Paulie needed a head start. Face replaced his clip and took shelter behind a tree as he waited for the men to appear in the doorway. He didn't have to wait long.

He aimed low and, after only two shots, heard a wounded cry. In the moment of confusion, he fired two more in the general direction of the doorway, turned, and sprinted. The two in front of him made it to the end of the sidewalk before the two unwounded men crossed the backyard. In the windows of the houses, curious and frightened residents were looking down on Face as he turned into one of the yards. There was no cover on the sidewalk – at least the yards offered a few small trees here and there.

Three chain link fences separated him from the parking lot at the end of the sidewalk. He leapt over them with the practiced ease of a city kid who'd run from the bigger bullies for most of his childhood. When he finally crossed the last one, he quickly scanned and found both Jessica and Paulie standing by an old sedan. Paulie was fumbling with keys, but shaky hands prevented him from finding the lock. Face crossed the distance in seconds, grabbed the keys, opened the door, and shoved Paulie inside, pushing him all the way over into the passenger seat.

Face stretched across the seat and unlocked the back door for Jessica, shoved the keys in the ignition, and squealed out of the parking space before the back door had even closed. Jessica shrieked as the back window shattered, and Face looked back to make sure she wasn't hit. She was lying against the seat, arms covering her head. Beside him, Paulie was struggling to turn himself upright.

As Face pulled out into traffic, the shooting stopped. Having found which way was up, Paulie was now waving wildly. "What! What is this! What are -"

"Settle down," Face ordered, hearing the sirens from somewhere nearby. Using will to overcome instincts, he pried his fingers off the gun and tucked it under the seat, then eased his foot off the gas pedal, slowing down to the speed limit.

"I don't… What the…"

"Sit still." Face turned and glared at him briefly, then looked into the back seat. "Jess, you okay?"

"Uh huh," she answered shakily.

"I need you to sit up and look normal," he instructed. "It's important. Okay?"

She pushed herself up and felt her hair gingerly, smoothing it out with shaking hands. The blue and red lights were coming toward them, and Face changed lanes to get as far away from them as he could. Before they passed, he turned calmly onto a street to the right and headed for the freeway.

**1969**

Face's blood was racing, thoughts a blur as adrenaline, exhaustion, and pleasure all mixed and mingled, sweeping over and through him. Catalina screamed in ecstasy as she arched up once more, then collapsed, gasping, back on the bed. Face dropped his head to her shoulder. His heart was racing, and he was dizzy. It took him several full minutes to find coherent thought again.

"{Are you alright?}"

She laughed softly. "{Perfectly.}"

Shifting carefully, he lay down beside her, kissing her shoulder once more as he breathed deep. The air conditioned hotel room was a pleasant reprieve from the heat and humidity outside. And as the tension slowly drained from his body, relaxing every muscle, a quiet, satisfied smile crept across his lips.

"{So what did you _really_ come to talk to my father about?}"

Face raised a brow, and tipped his head up until he caught her gaze. "{What do you mean?}"

She laughed softly. "{You heard me.}" She traced his jaw with one manicured fingertip. "{What diabolical scheme are you planning in that twisted mind of yours?}"

He couldn't help but laugh. "{I somehow feel that I should be very insulted by that.}"

"{Only if it's not true,}" she smirked back at him.

He paused for a long moment, then reached a hand up to brush her dark hair back from her forehead. "{Who owns that Cadillac that was parked out front? Is that your father's?}"

She laughed loudly. "{You want my father's car?}"

"{No, I don't want to keep it.}" He smiled, tracing her lips with the tip of his finger. "{Just… borrow it. For a few hours.}"

"{He is very protective of that car, Templeton. He only got it three weeks ago. It's pretty, no?}"

"{Gorgeous.}" Face hesitated, running a finger down her throat, and further, between her breasts.

She eyed him carefully. "{What do you want it for?}"

Face paused, considering his words carefully. "{I have a new client that I'm meeting tonight,}" he finally whispered. "{One whom I'd like to impress.}" He watched his hand with lazy interest as he trailed up to the peak of her breast, circling her nipple teasingly. "{I can't think of anything more impressive than showing up in a beautiful car with Mr. Tao's beautiful daughter at my side.}"

She smiled knowingly. "{Yes, it would make a statement.}"

"{I'll make it worth your while,}" he promised, meeting her eyes again. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "{You know I'm good for it.}"

"{Indeed,}" she whispered back as she reached up to touch the side of his face. "{You are good for a lot of things.}"

"{Does that mean you'll help me?}"

She sighed. "{Sadly, Templeton, I have a prior engagement tonight.}"

Even better. He hesitated as she stroked his cheek lightly, long enough for an adequate feign of disappointment.

"{It is too bad, too. I would have enjoyed very much to spend the evening with you.}"

"{Perhaps another night,}" he suggested.

"{I would love that. How long do you expect to be in the area?}"

"{I don't know,}" Face admitted. It was probably the first honest thing he'd said all day. "{But I'm sure we can work something out.}"

He paused for a long moment, and glanced at her, locking gazes again. "{I don't suppose you would consider putting in a good word for me with your father anyways? For the car? Tonight?}"

Catalina considered it for a moment, then shrugged. "{I don't know how successful I will be. But my father does speak very highly of you. Perhaps if you come with me…}"

Face smiled. "{Of course.}"


	21. Chapter Twenty

Again to Anonymous:

It is canon that he went to college, and that is consistent with the fact that he is a Commissioned Officer. I did deal with that. He did go to college briefly. He was not a lieutenant when he joined the Army. In any case, if you stick hard and fast to canon, you're going to run into a number of problems since canon so often contradicts itself. We can't even figure out if Hannibal is a Colonel or Lieutenant Colonel, or if Murdock is Army or Air Force, or whether they escaped Ft. Bragg before or after the trial, or whether they hit the bank of Hanoi before or after the end of the war and what that means for the several dates given for their escape. I don't think there's a piece of fanfiction out there - especially one that deals with past, present, and future timeline, that couldn't be called AU depending on which episodes are your favorite. And although I have gone to GREAT lengths to incorporate everything we have about their past - up to and including the screenshots to validate the dates for their escape from Ft. Bragg… - it is flat out impossible to make a story that sticks to all canon and make it cohesive.

If you want something that doesn't contradict, I suggest you stick to shorter pieces that don't try to make sense of a self-contradictory canon. It is indeed just as well that you don't attempt to read a lengthy piece that really makes an effort at putting it all together. And also as well that you choose to have this conversation in public rather than actually signing your reviews so that we could discuss it further. Because I think every one of my readers needs to be aware of the time and effort I have put into researching both HISTORY and CANON. If you can't tell that from the story itself, maybe it just needs to be in an author's note. So.

A/N to all: Tell me you hate my story, my writing, or both. Better yet, tell me what I can do to fix it. Or just don't say anything at all. 300 hits a day on this story and I've only got a few regular reviewers. I'm not complaining about that. But do not tell me that I don't respect canon. It's a MASSIVE sore spot for me, since I HAVE put so much time and effort into making it all fit. If you see something that doesn't jive, I've probably already thought of it and could quote you chapter and verse where I got it. Review or e-mail or IM me (batmansss979 on aim) if you want my "proof". But seriously, people. Don't just assume that a piece you have admittedly NOT READ is AU. Because while AU has its place, and some people enjoy it (and more power to them), those of us who don't may well take serious offense at the unsubstantiated claim that we were not true to canon.

And on that note… I think I've set a beautiful tone for this chapter. lol

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

"Face?"

Face stepped out of the car and closed the door behind him. "Yeah, Colonel?"

Hannibal was staring, stunned, at the sparkling, red 1953 Cadillac convertible Face had just parked in front of the barracks. "Where did you get that car?"

Face just smiled, slipping the keys into his pocket. "Where's Cruiser?"

As if on cue, Cruiser stepped out of the building. BA and Boston were only a half-step behind him. "Christ, Face!" Cruiser laughed loudly. "How the fuck did you do it?"

Face smiled as he watched Cruiser inspect the car. "Just make sure you don't damage it," he warned. "If I don't take it back in one piece, it's my ass."

"Lieutenant!"

Face locked eyes with Hannibal, surprised by the abrasive tone. "Colonel?"

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "I asked you a question. _Where_ did you get this car?"

Face turned fully to face him. "I borrowed it," he said confidently.

"Borrowed or stole?"

"Borrowed," Face clarified, eyes narrowed slightly at the blatant accusation. "Withpermission from the owner. And I have every intention of giving it back. Is there a problem with that?"

Face could tell by the flash in Hannibal's eyes that there was a very big problem with that. Realizing that he was about to come under attack, Face pushed his shoulders back and stood straighter as Hannibal took a few steps closer to him.

"Who does this car belong to?"

The car was attracting the attention of passing soldiers as well. A crowd was gathering, and Face watched them out of the corner of his eye as he kept his gaze locked on his commanding officer's. "That's the beauty of it, Colonel," he answered with a slight smile on his lips. If Hannibal was trying to get a rise out of him, it wasn't going to work. "It doesn't matter."

"How so?"

He overtly looked away from Hannibal, and his smile grew as he caught Cruiser's gaze. "Anything, anywhere, anytime."

"No shit," Cruiser mumbled, running a hand over the leather interior. Apparently, the stare-down and the mounting tension between the two officers was lost on him. "This thing is gorgeous."

Hannibal did not seem impressed. As he stepped closer, crouching in on Face's personal space, their eyes locked again. "If you didn't steal it," Hannibal said darkly, "then that leaves two options. Either you bartered for it, or you called in a favor from some old friends that you're not supposed to be having contact with anymore."

Face hesitated, recognizing the bait for what it was. "If I'd bartered for it, I would own it," he answered, carefully watching his words and his tone. "And I would've had a hell of a time calling in a favor when my reputation isn't what it used to be."

"Unless you're rebuilding it."

Face blinked, caught off guard by the open accusation. Not only was it lacking subtlety, it was lacking _sense._ Hannibal could not possibly think that he was rebuilding his connections with the underground. He had way too much to lose, and nothing to gain; he wasn't stupid. Besides, if Hannibal had any indication that he was going down that road, there were far more effective ways to shut him down than to accuse him outright; Hannibal wasn't stupid either.

It wasn't a real accusation. It couldn't be. Hannibal was just pushing buttons. And if he kept pushing, sooner or later he was going to find a trigger. In front of all these people, that seemed very unlike him. Face wasn't exactly surprised; he'd expected a retaliation of some sort after their encounter the other night. But he was a little caught off guard by how forward – and how public – Hannibal was being about it. This could get very messy, very quickly. For both of them.

Muscles tense, Face proceeded very carefully, testing the waters uneasily. "You wanna take this somewhere a little more private, Colonel?"

"Why? Do you think I have something to hide?" Hannibal's eyes narrowed into slits. "Or do you just not want to share with the entire camp who you had to _fuck_ to get that car?"

Face felt a flash of anger. But it was quickly forgotten as Face considered the irony. It almost – _almost _– made him smile. Hannibal had clearly meant it as an insult and it did, in fact, make heads turn. But the amused look on the young lieutenant's face was in direct contrast to the anger simmering in his colonel's gaze.

"You find this amusing, Lieutenant?"

Apparently he hadn't hidden the smile well enough. "Terribly."

Hannibal's eyes flashed. "We can see how amusing you find a court martial, if that's the direction you'd like to take this."

Heads were beginning to turn. Among them, Cruiser, Boston, and BA were watching him in bewildered surprise. "For what?" Face challenged. "Borrowing a car? I was on my time, off the base with permission, and I haven't broken any laws."

Hannibal's gaze didn't waver. "Boston?"

"Colonel?"

Hannibal watched Face as he spoke. "Get over to the commo bunker and put a call in to Westman."

"Sir?" Boston sounded startled.

"Now!"

Boston hesitated a moment, exchanging glances with the rest of the team before he slowly backed away. Face's amusement faded quickly, and he held Hannibal's stare, steady and unemotional. "You're actually serious," he realized quietly. "You really want to make an issue out of this? You know I didn't do anything wrong."

Now it was Hannibal's turn to raise a brow. "You gonna call my bluff, Lieutenant?" He must have seen that consideration pass through Face's eyes. "Or are you gonna give me an answer? Where'd you get the goddamn car?"

Face kept his voice low, eyes narrowed. "I told you. I borrowed it from a friend."

"What kind of friend?"

Face hesitated. He needed an answer, something to level the playing field. "Come on, Colonel," he said flatly. "Just how stupid do you think I am?"

Hannibal took another step closer. "That's 'how stupid do you think I am, _Sir_,'" he corrected.

Face studied him silently. A dress down? He had to be kidding. "Nice way of avoiding the question," he answered. "Sir."

"I don't owe you an answer. Or an explanation. But you sure as hell owe me one."

"If you've got something you'd like to accuse me of, _Sir_, you might as well do it."

"Hey, Colonel?" Cruiser's voice had never sounded so unsure. Out of the corner of his eye, Face saw him step closer. But he still kept a safe distance. "It was just a bet. A challenge – me to Face. Didn't mean to cause any problems."

Hannibal ignored him completely, never taking his eyes off of Face. "Where'd you get the car, Lieutenant?" he demanded. "Alex? Tao? Some new friend of yours?"

Face felt his anger spark – inexplicable in its intensity. Eyes ice cold, he stared Hannibal down. "As I said," he answered flatly. "You want to accuse me of something, Sir?"

"Would it help to get my point across?"

"It might. Because for the life of me, I can't figure out what the hell you're expecting me to say."

"Hard of hearing, boy? I'm not going to ask you the same fucking question again."

Face's jaw clenched, but he kept his composure. It was a game. It was blatantly, and openly a game. And Hannibal was going to win this round. Face resigned himself to that, and put his eyes straight ahead as his posture shifted almost naturally to attention. But he didn't speak.

Hannibal wasn't stupid. Face hadn't done anything illegal; they both knew that. But proving that would be very difficult, and they both knew that, too. There was nothing Face could say that wouldn't incriminate himself. A car like that wasn't easy to come by. There weren't many people it could possibly belong to. And every one of them was on the list of people Face shouldn't be speaking to if he was truly maintaining a safe distance from his past sins.

"Nothing to say, Lieutenant?"

He could feel the eyes on him – Americans, Yards, and Vietnamese. His own team and perfect strangers, most of them his own subordinates. That didn't seem to matter to Hannibal in the least.

"Then how about I do the talking?"

"Be my guest, Sir."

"Let's talk about your piss poor record, and what's going to happen to you if you so much as cast a lingering glance at heroin again."

Face's jaw was set, eyes out of focus. He couldn't see the reactions, and he didn't want to. His scarred record was not, in any sense of the word, common knowledge. His own team was unaware of the charges that were stacked against him, held at bay only by the conditional graces of Hannibal and Westman. Now Hannibal was making it public, and Face had to admit that it was the perfect place to stick the knife – his most vulnerable point by far.

"I never used heroin, Sir."

"No, you didn't use it," Hannibal shot back. "You sold it – to men, women, and children." He lowered his voice to a growl. "And you sold men, women, and children to _get _it."

Face's eyes narrowed into slits. "You're wrong."

"Oh, am I?" The challenge was clear.

"I never dealt with children. Under _any _circumstances."

"Oh, well, that makes it okay, then." He stepped closer, until Face could feel his breath on the back of his neck. But his voice was still loud enough for everyone to hear. "You should be rotting away in prison right now. Dishonorably discharged. You'd get to run home to Mommy when you get out in about ten or fifteen years."

Face didn't flinch. "You wanna put me in prison, Sir, you go right ahead. I can't change what I did before. Doesn't mean I'm doing it now."

"You think I _won't _put you in prison, boy?" Hannibal threatened. "You think you're different from everyone else? That you've got some kind of special immunity?"

"No, Sir. But you'd have to make a case. And as far as that car goes, you've got nothing on me."

Hannibal stepped in front of him, eyes blazing as he leaned in threateningly. "I've got a stack of evidence on you a mile high. I've got a signed fucking confession, remember?"

Finally, at that, Face flinched. He cursed himself for it immediately, but he couldn't help it.

"Step out of my good graces, boy, and see what happens to you," Hannibal growled.

Face's anger flared at the threat. He bit his tongue, but only briefly before he couldn't hold back the retaliation any longer. "I'm not all that worried about it," he shot back. "I'm pretty sure that you can't do a whole hell of a lot without Westman's stamp of approval. And I don't think I'll have too much trouble getting you out of _his _good graces, if it comes to that."

"Maybe." Hannibal stopped directly in front of him, no longer circling. "But I can make your life a living hellfrom now until then."

Face's eyes flashed at the challenge. "Try it."

Hannibal didn't seem the least bit moved. Hard, cold eyes narrowed into slits and he took a step back. "On the ground, Lieutenant," he ordered. "And count to a hundred."

Face raised a brow. He'd been expecting Hannibal to threaten, and to make good on whatever threat he made. But he sure as hell hadn't been expecting that. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Do I looklike I'm fucking kidding, boy?"

Face didn't move, staring at him.

Taking just a half-step closer, Hannibal hooked one foot in front of Face's ankles, put one hand on his shoulder, and with well-aimed force, took the young Lieutenant's feet right out from under him. Face hit the ground on his hands and knees.

Even though he was already on the ground, Face was debating the merits of non-compliance. He'd been through this kind of treatment for the last time in OCS. It made his blood boil to think that Hannibal had the nerve to try it again. But the colonel's boot, heavy with warm mud, was resting on the small of his back before he could get back up. And under the force of Hannibal's foot, Face's knees slid in the mud until he was lying flat.

"You can start any time, boy," Hannibal growled. "I'm prepared to stand here all fucking day if that's what you want. But every minute that passes from now 'til the time you're _done, _you're doing fifty more. So I'd get started if I were you."

Face hesitated for a long moment, his pride fuming. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several of the soldiers back off and turn away. Every one of them had been through basic, and every one of them knew this routine, and none of them particularly wanted to participate in the abject humiliation. Pressed down in two inches of mud, Face had some difficulty even sliding his hands into position and getting the stability to push himself up.

Hannibal's foot was still on his back, and he didn't make it any easier for Face to rise. With angry determination, Face held himself up, arms straight out, until Hannibal's push on his back shoved him back down into the mud. Rising back up was harder the next time - Hannibal made sure of it.

"I can't hear you, boy!" Hannibal yelled down at him.

It took several agonizing reps before Face fell into the pattern. Emotionally shut off, conditioned responses took over. He did know this drill; he'd been through it a million times. But between the mud, the heat, his CO's foot on his back, and the fact that he hadn't done so many pushups at once – or so fast – since his last PT test in the States, it was pure hell. By the time he'd finished, he'd done 250. If it had taken him five seconds longer, it would have been 300. Arms burning, shoulders aching, and covered in mud, Face collapsed, breathing hard.

Hannibal's boot lifted from his back and went to his shoulder. "Get up," he growled, shoving him as if to turn him onto his back.

Face didn't think about it. He just moved. Back to his feet, eyes dead ahead. Hannibal let him find his stance, and catch his breath, before he stepped in again. "Now get this fucking car out of here and get your ass back on base. And until further notice, you don't set foot outside of the barracks without my explicit permission. Do I make myself clear?"

Face's jaw ticked, but he didn't bring his eyes into focus. "Yes, Sir."

"If you have to take a _piss_, Lieutenant, you'd better ask nicely. Because I am not putting up with any more bullshit from you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

Hannibal paused beside him as he walked past, shoulder to shoulder. When he spoke again, it was too low for the crowd to hear. "If you want to play outside of the rules, boy…" Face looked up and caught his gaze. Fire flew between them, white-hot and furious. "You should be aware that there _are _no rules. Think about it. _Lieutenant_."

Face set his jaw, and didn't move as Hannibal passed him, heading to the commo bunker, where he'd sent Boston several minutes before. Feet planted firmly in the muddy ground, he remained still and silent as the crowd around the car gradually went back to their business.


	22. Chapter Twenty One

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

Jessica was still a little shaky when they stopped at the bar. She looked around uneasily, noticing the absence of the black van. "Where… uh…?"

There was a pickup truck parked relatively near the pay phone. Face pulled in alongside it, and parked. Paulie's eyes were wide with fear as he realized where they were. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice trembling. "What do you want?" He looked back and forth from Jessica to Face, almost frantic. "What's this about?"

Face turned and glared at him. "You've got a lot of people who seem to be really unhappy with you, Paulie."

"Oh, come on man," Paulie cried. "Don't do this, man… I… I can pay you!"

Face rolled his eyes as he turned and looked out the window.

"Pay him?" Jessica challenged. "What are you gonna pay him with, Paulie? Your good looks?"

Flicking his gaze to the rearview window, he saw Paulie's eyes still franticly shifting in every direction. "I uh…"

"Paulie, they blew up our house," Jessica informed him. "They could've killed us all!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Face saw Paulie's expression change – fear to sympathy. "Aw, Jessie, I'm sorry…"

Jessica growled. "Sure you are," she shot back. "You're real sorry until it gets fixed. Then you'll go right back out and do it again."

"Aw, that's not true."

"As far as they were concerned, they _owned _our house," she reminded him. "You bet it at the tables, remember?"

"I just… I needed something to play with." He laughed tensely. "That deed wasn't even any good."

"It was good enough to convince them," Jessica said coldly.

"The fact is, Paulie," Face interrupted, "somebody feels you owe them money. And they'll take it out of anyone who means anything to you."

"And even some of us who don't," Jessica snapped.

Paulie stared at her, struck. "That's… That's a horrible thing to say, Jessica! Are you implying that I would… that I don't care about you?"

"I'm not implying anything," she growled back. "I'm flat-out saying it. My kids – who mean everything in the world to me – are homeless. They've lost all their toys, all their things, their rooms… Everything I've worked and _slaved _to give them!"

Face let Jessica continue, though he tuned her out as she blew off some much needed steam at her brother. He deserved it. He deserved a lot more, too. Face didn't feel the least bit sorry for him.

Jessica was a pro. She dressed him down with the ease of a practiced drill sergeant. As he absorbed the darts, managing to get a weak protest in every few sentences, Face's thoughts were moving towards what they had to do next. His gaze settled on the pay phone, and he wondered how long they would have to wait before it rang.

In the back of his mind, he was already considering his options for if they had to move before Murdock called. This wasn't exactly the safest place to hang out. But until that phone rang, he couldn't know where to meet up with his team. He didn't want to get any further separated than they already were. When BA got his nice van, he was going to have to figure out some way to get a phone in there. Or a long distance radio. Anything that would make it so that they didn't have to rely on public phones…

The moment of silence from the backseat caught his attention, and he glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure that the two hadn't killed each other. They were each looking out their windows, arms crossed and angry.

"So what happens now?" Jessica finally asked, her voice still irritated. But it lacked the venomous anger as she spoke to Face. "We wait?"

"We wait," he agreed. "Unless either of you know where they might've taken Hannibal and BA."

She shook her head. "I haven't a clue."

"What are we doing here?" Paulie asked nervously.

"We're waiting," Jessica answered coldly. "Didn't you hear him _just _say that?"

_Here we go again…_

"This ain't a good place to be waiting," Paulie mumbled. "There's bad people here."

"It's just a bar, Paulie." Jessica's tone reeked of anger and aggression. "The people there are just as friendly as the ones in the next bar unless you've done something to _piss them off_!"

"You know, Jessie, I've had about enough of your subtle accusations."

"Subtle?" she repeated in horror. "Face, was I being subtle?"

Face put his hands up in surrender. "I'm staying out of this."

"Let me be a little less subtle, Paulie! Because I want to make sure you get this!"

As Jessica erupted into another furious assault, Face put the side of his head against the windowpane and prayed for the phone to ring. If it was only five minutes he had to wait, it would be the longest five minutes of his life.

**1969**

Three days felt like years. Face stared at the wall, knees pulled to his chest, wishing for a cigarette. He'd run out the day before. Three days without food, and only the liquor in his locker to drink. Hannibal was playing hardball – and he'd brought the whole team in on it. They were all supposed to leave him alone. They did, though they all seemed a bit confused by the order. Hannibal wasn't explaining himself to them, and Face wasn't about to break his vow of stubborn silence. So they left him alone. They left him to stew and suffer until he finally relented and begged for his freedom. Face grit his teeth at the thought. He would sooner _die_.

_ Leaning against the wall of the TOC, Face watched as the helicopter set down and a group of men raced to greet the returning team. The One-Zeroes greeted them with smiles and beer and congratulations - they were all still alive. Face dragged deeply on his cigarette, eyes dark and face expressionless as he watched them. The young colonel was out in front – smiling, laughing… There was blood spattered all over the front of his sterile, unmarked BDUs. _

_ "You know who that is?" _

_ He'd heard the approach beside him. The voice confirmed his suspicion that it was Shorty. "By reputation," Face answered flatly, not taking his eyes off of Smith as he was escorted by the crowd into the makeshift NCO club._

_ "Heh. Which one?"_

_ Face glanced quickly at Shorty, brow raised, then looked out at Smith again. "What do you mean?"_

_ "I can't think of any guy I've met since I got here who hadn't heard of him. 'Bout half are terrified of him and the other half are too stupid to know better."_

_ Face didn't respond. Gaze still locked, he took another deep drag. Smith must have sensed the stare. He looked up, and his eyes found Face's as if he knew exactly where to look. Face didn't look away. _

_ "You ever talked to him?"_

_ A few steps further, Smith was distracted by the man on his right. He smiled, quickly losing interest in Face's lingering gaze. "No."_

_ "Come on. I'll introduce you."_

_ Another drag. Face shook his head. "Thanks, but no."_

_ Shorty laughed. "You're not afraid of him too, are you?"_

_ Face glanced sideways at the 5'1 sergeant standing beside him, and gave a self-assured smirk. Shorty chuckled. "Your loss."_

_ Face let his smile fall as Shorty walked away. Gradually, his eyes lowered to the ground, and he finished his cigarette in silence before dropping it to the dirt and grinding it out with the toe of his boot. _

"Hey, LT." Face glanced up at the door as Cruiser poked his head in. He just barely caught the canteen that Cruiser tossed to him. "Hannibal wants you in the TOC. We're going out."

Finally.

Face stood and opened the canteen, gulping water on his way to the lockers. Cruiser watched him warily. "Hey, are you ever gonna tell me what this is about?"

Finished with the water, he tossed the empty canteen back to Cruiser before sitting down to put his boots on. "No. Why? Were you expecting me to?"

Cruiser folded his arms, brow furrowed as he watched Face tie the boots, then reach for his pack. "Just tell me one more time that whatever the hell is going on between you two, it's _not _going to go with us on the ground."

Face grabbed his gun from under his bunk and stood. He was ready to go in seconds. "Trust me, Cruiser," he said. "I'm not looking to get anybody killed. And neither is Hannibal. It's just a personal matter."

"Your personal matter got pretty public," Cruiser reminded, walking a step behind him as he headed out the door. "What the hell did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything to him," Face answered with a sigh. They'd had this conversation before. In fact, he'd had it with every single member of the team. It was always the same.

"Yeah, bullshit. Hannibal doesn't get mad easy. Especially not in front of a crowd of people."

Face didn't answer. He led the way to the TOC and stepped inside confidently. He offered a quick glance around, not letting his eyes lock with any one of his teammates, before he sat down in one of the chairs against the wall. The situation would only be tense if he allowed it to be. For right now, he was in the position to set the mood.

"Where are we going, Hannibal?" he asked casually.

Hannibal didn't hesitate to follow the "everything is fine" routine. "There's a communication system running up and down this portion of the trail," he said, pointing out the area on the map. "It's too fast and too efficient to be by courier, and too far to be by radio. Which means they've got a line run."

"And they want us to shut it down?" Boston guessed.

"They want us to tap it." He glanced at Boston. "I need you and BA to both bring whatever equipment you need to do that. Once we find this line, I'll set you in two different places to tap in and get the hell out of there. If they find us, or have any indication that we're nosing around the area, they'll stop using the line and the mission is blown. It's got to be fast and it's got to be quiet."

"That's only a few miles from here," Cruiser observed. "You planning to take a chopper?"

"Choppers aren't exactly quiet, Sergeant."

Cruiser smiled. "Right."

"I want everyone geared up and at the gate in fifteen minutes. Pack light. I want to be able to move fast." As everyone stood, Hannibal kept his eyes on the map, hunched over the table. "Face, stay here a minute."

Face sat back down, and casually lit a cigarette as the rest of the team filed out. Hannibal waited until they'd gone to look up. "I'm not going to have a problem with you out there, am I?"

Face raised a brow. "Are you expecting a problem?"

"I'm not exactly sure what to expect from you right now, Lieutenant."

"Well, I guess we're even. I sure as hell wasn't expecting to be accused of going back to drug running."

Hannibal hesitated. "You know, sometimes I wonder what you're capable of, Lieutenant. There's not a whole hell of a lot that I'd put past you anymore."

Face nodded, and took a drag on his cigarette. "That's probably a smart move on your part. But I'm not the enemy here. Our reputations are staked on each other. That goes for the whole team. And I'm not into sabotage."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed slightly at the unspoken accusation. Face smiled. For a minute, he'd been afraid that Hannibal wouldn't catch it. "Sabotage?" he repeated, challengingly.

"Putting my own selfish gain above the welfare of the team?" Face took another drag, keeping his eyes on the colonel. "Yeah, I'd call that sabotage."

Hannibal stood straighter. Face's smile remained in place as he rose to his feet and grabbed his pack and his gun. "You know, Cruiser seems to think that if I just gave you a chance to explain yourself, it would all make sense and everything would be okay. Maybe I'd even learn to trust you."

Hannibal's eyes remained cold. "If you're looking for an explanation, you've really gone about it the wrong way."

Face shook his head. "I don't care what your reasons are. Not any more than you would care about mine if I started running drugs again." He paused, and his eyes narrowed at Hannibal. "The difference is, I'm _not _running drugs. And you _are _fucking around with the general's wife."

"And why does that suddenly bother you now?" Hannibal demanded. "You've known for at least two months."

"Because the fire is getting hotter and you're still playing with it."

"Elaine has gone back to the States already. If you think I have any intention of flying over there to see her, you're a little off base."

"No," Face granted. "But you fucked her when she was here, and that was less than a week ago. I need a little bit longer than that to start respecting you again. Let alone trusting you."

Face turned and headed for the door, but he only made it halfway before Hannibal's voice stopped him. "Respect?"

Face paused, and took a drag on his cigarette, but didn't look back.

"Do you have any idea what I had to go through to get you on this team?" Hannibal challenged, slowly walking around the table. "And you are good, kid. You're damn good on the ground. But you are one sorry fucking excuse for a human being – let alone a soldier – if you think that you don't owe me at _least _your respect."

Face turned and looked at him, cold eyes locked hard. But he didn't speak.

"You would be rotting in a military prison right now, Lieutenant," Hannibal continued quietly. "And if that's what you want, it can be arranged. But don't you darestand there and tell me that I am not worthy of your respect – or your trust – when I have _never _let you down!"

Face didn't look away. After a moment of tense silence, Hannibal took a few steps to the door, then turned back. "I have had your back since before you even knew my name – in the field, and on the base, and before every soldier and every citizen in this goddamn country. I have _always _stepped in front of the bullet for you."

"Don't do me any favors," Face said coldly.

"No, you don't get it, Face. I would do that for _any _man under my command. I have nevernot been there for one of my men. And don't you fucking forget it."

Without another word, he turned and walked out of the TOC, slamming the door shut behind him.

**1978**

"This ain't a good place."

Face was getting very tired of hearing that line.

"Murdock will call when he can. Especially once he knows we're here."

"Yeah?" Paulie challenged. "Well, how reliable is this guy?"

Face glared at him. "Very."

"How will he know we're here?" Jessica asked.

"When those guys either turn up without us or don't turn up at all."

"That could be a while."

"Could be. He'll probably call before then."

"We should get out of here, man. This ain't a good place to be. This ain't a good place."

Face sighed as he ran his hand through his hair, holding his head. "We should've let them take him."

"What!" Paulie, still confused about the entire scenario, had at least enough sense to figure out that being taken by "them" wouldn't have been his choice.

"Why?" Jessica asked much more calmly.

"Because we could've followed them," Face answered. "They would've taken him to their boss."

"They would've killed me!"

"And you would've deserved it," Jessica growled at him.

"Hey, I didn't ask for that," Paulie snapped back.

"I didn't exactly ask for my house to get blown up, either!"

"I'll buy you a new house!"

"Oh, please! You'd gamble away all the –"

"Hey!" The arguing stopped as Face turned and glared at them both. "Knock it off, will you? You guys are making me crazy."

"It ain't a good place."

"Paulie?" Jessica snapped. "Shut up."

"What are we doin' here?" he continued, ignoring her. "We shouldn't be here, man."

Jessica leaned forward, towards the driver's seat. "It _has _been a long time." By Face's count, it had been twenty-two minutes, and thirty seconds of pure hell. "What if something happened to them?"

Face sighed. "We still have to wait for contact. Otherwise, we don't even know where to start looking."

"Maybe someone inside knows," she suggested. In the mirror, he saw her eyes flicker with anger. "Maybe we should send Paulie in there to find out!"

"No way! I ain't goin' near that place!"

Face sighed again, studying the bar. "We can't go in there. Any one of us could be recognized. Too risky." He was prepared to do that only as a last resort.

"Well, if they got Paulie… wouldn't they logically take him to wherever they took the others?"

"No way, Jessie! You know what they'd do to me?"

"Probably, but it isn't a guarantee," Face answered, ignoring him. It would do as a last resort.

"It wouldn't have been a guarantee at the condo, either, and you said we should've left him there."

Face smiled politely. "The greater benefit of leaving him at the condo would have been lengthy bout of sibling rivalry it would've saved us all."

"You actually would've left me at that condo?" Paulie cried. "You would've left me there to die?"

She glared over her shoulder at him. "You left my _children _to die when your gambling buddies blew up my house."

Face put one hand over his eyes, his elbow on the steering wheel. "Oh, please, not again," he begged. Every time they stopped, they started again just moments later. He was ready to tell them both to get out of the car, bad guys or no. Maybe he'd get out. Maybe it really _was _a good idea for him to walk into that bar. After all, the worst they could do in there was shoot him.

**1969**

Face stopped suddenly, snapped his fingers twice, and froze. Everyone in front of him stopped as well, and looked back over their shoulders at where he was standing stock still. He scanned his surroundings carefully, not even entirely sure what he'd seen/heard/smelled that had made him stop. His senses caught up with his subconscious several seconds later. Voices behind him. He made a signal, and turned, weapon pointed in the direction he'd just come from. Nothing moved. His eyes narrowed. He could still hear them. Where were they?

He stepped forward slowly. If the enemy was nearby, he wanted to know where. He didn't like them being close enough to hear and still out of sight. If they were close enough to hear, they were close enough to kill.

He stepped back slowly, carefully, three paces back from where he'd come to a stop. Left. There was a large, fallen tree ten yards from the path their trampling boots had created. He approached it cautiously, gun ready, swinging wide and hiding with every step. That was where they were – sitting on the ground with their backs to the opposite side of it. It was large enough to block them from view.

He dropped carefully to the ground as he caught a glimpse of them. There were only three. He eyed them carefully for a long moment, and glanced up as he saw Hannibal approach. Pressing down to the ground beside him, Hannibal leaned in to hiss into his ear. "What the hell are you doing? Let's go!"

"There's only three of them."

"Yeah, and where there's three, there's more. We've got a job to do and we can't be seen. So move it, Lieutenant!"

As Hannibal waited for compliance, Face looked out again at the three men. Their guns were on the ground – within reach, but it would take them a minute. Face had the advantage. He shook his head as he put his hands under him and pushed up, readying his gun. "No."

"Face! Dammit!"

They heard Hannibal's angry hiss at the same time they saw Face's gun pointed straight at them. "Hi." Face greeted with a smile. "You are all now POWs."

Two of them reached for their guns. The remaining soldier was sprayed with their blood as Face fired several bursts, then turned the gun to point it straight at his head. "Try it," Face threatened, through gritted teeth.

The man's eyes were wide and frightened. He slowly raised his arms in surrender.

Face glanced around quickly. Hannibal was standing beside him now, and he stepped forward to jerk the NVA soldier to his feet at the same time that Cruiser and BA stepped through the foliage, responding to the shots.

"Great job, Lieutenant," Hannibal shot angrily. "What the hell are we supposed to do with him now?"

"He and I are gonna have a talk." Face stepped forward, the hot barrel of the gun under the man's throat. "After that, I don't really care."

As Hannibal stared at him, Cruiser turned and gestured for the translator to come closer. He responded quickly.

"Alright, Face," Hannibal said with evident distaste. "Since you seem to be calling your own shots, here. He's your prisoner. Have at it." Hannibal shoved the man forward, into Face, and it took them both a moment to regain their balance.

"I'm looking for a man." Face paused as the translator relayed quickly. "An American. His name is Devon Young and he's a sergeant with the US Army."

Hannibal stared, then put a hand over his face as he turned away. "Jesus Christ, Face."

"He was captured not far from here," Face continued, ignoring him. "Where is he?"

The man shook his head frantically, and rambled quickly in Vietnamese. "He does not know any American."

Face shoved his CAR-15 aside and grabbed the pistol from his thigh. A single shot put a bullet in the soldier's arm – his dominant arm, if the placement of his gun was any indication. Two birds with one stone - and he screamed in pain. Cruiser jumped back and stood, wide eyed, next to BA.

"Face!" BA cried. "What're you doin'? You can't do that, man!"

Hannibal didn't flinch, but glared steadily at Face.

Face didn't have to ask again. "He says there is a camp," the translator relayed, "not far from here. There are Americans there. He does not know how many, or if your friend is one of them."

"Lucky for you, you got your memory back," Face sneered. "Now I just hope you can remember how to get there." He stepped back, grabbed the man's unhurt shoulder, and shoved him in Hannibal's direction. The colonel stepped out of the way.

"Start walking," Face ordered the prisoner roughly. "Make sure you let us know when we're starting to get close. And if you try any-fucking-thing, I will blow you away right where you stand. Frankly, I'd rather have you dead than alive right now anyways."

Face could feel Cruiser and BA both staring at him in shock as he put the pistol back on his thigh. With a quick glare at Hannibal, Face readied his CAR-15 with the barrel against the prisoner's spine, and started walking. A few exchanged glances, and Cruiser caught up with him a few steps later.

"I knew Devon Young, Face," Cruiser said quietly. "He didn't go down anywhere near here."

"He knows that," Hannibal shot. "He knows it damn well."

Face ignored them both as he put one foot in front of the other, following the prisoner slowly, eyes out of focus.

**1968**

_ "Colonel?"_

_ Hannibal stopped, a few paces from the chopper that was already cranked and ready. Looking back, his eyes came to rest on a young – very young – blonde sergeant. It was the same boy who'd been watching him – always from a distance – since he'd first arrived. Apparently, he'd finally worked up the nerve to introduce himself. As luck would have it – or maybe it had been planned – Hannibal was just on his way out. "Yeah, kid?"_

_ "I have a question for you."_

_ Hannibal glanced over his shoulder at the chopper that was waiting for him. "Make it quick."_

_ "I know you had to lie on paper. To the family, to everyone. But I want to know. Where did Sergeant Devon Young die?"_

_ Hannibal stared at him for a moment, taken aback by the question. Finally, he shook his head. "Sergeant Young isn't dead," he answered simply. "He's still out there somewhere."_

_ The boy's eyes widened noticeably, unable to contain his surprise. _

_ "Hannibal, come on!"_

_ He turned and continued toward the chopper, but looked back a few steps later, walking backwards and juggling his weapon and his smaller packs into one hand. "Cambodia, kid," he called back. "About twenty miles inside the border from Duc Lap."_

_ It was the last thing he said before he turned away again. This time, he climbed onto the helicopter and didn't look back as they lifted up and away._

**A/N: Yay! No bitchy commentary from me this time, just a shameless plug. My co-writers - who have been VERY influential on this series at all levels - have begun posting. "Soldier in the Mirror" by Tiggertoo is actually tied into this series. It is a short piece about BA (whom she writes much better than I do) after the escape from Fort Bragg. There's a book in this series later that deals with that time in their lives. Her piece fits there (but contains no spoilers that you haven't already seen if you've read what I've posted thus far). The other piece, by Quentillian, is not tied to this series and in fact her take on Face is quite a bit different from mine. She is, however, one of the few writers who can pull it off and not have me screaming, "No! He's out of character!" As she has helped me with scenes for these books, I have helped her with scenes for that one - and it's an interesting change of pace. :) Her book is called "Power Play" and is now posting.**

**I don't often recommend reading. But these two authors, I trust enough to give them both huge parts to play in the development of my own series. Tigger is my Jessica; Quent is my Cruiser. Both are EXCELLENT writers. If you like my stuff, you WILL like theirs.**


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

Face was waiting for the explosion. The rescue had been one of the most beautifully executed of his entire career, and two Americans owed their lives to the success of it. And from the near-absolute silence that Hannibal had demonstrated since Face had disobeyed his orders in the presence of the three NVA, Face could tell that no payoff would have been enough to satiate him. The explosion was coming.

But Hannibal had the decency to let the calm before the storm extend until they had gotten the grateful POWs to the dispensary. Then he locked eyes on Face. Streaked with blood and camo paint, guns and bags in tow, the two of them headed silently for the team room. Neither was surprised, and neither particularly seemed to care, when the rest of the team followed them.

As the door closed, Hannibal threw his pack on the floor with little regard for where it landed.

"Where the _fucking _hell do you get off, Lieutenant?"

Face's back was turned as he slid his pack off of his shoulders and set it – and his weapon – on the bed. "Know what gets me off, Hannibal?" Face challenged, unwinding the tape from around his hand. "Pulling two Americans out of a fucking POW camp gets me off." He looked over his shoulder, a murderous glare in Hannibal's direction. "You got a problem with that?"

Hannibal had crossed the room before Face had finished shedding his equipment. "That is bullshit," he fumed. "You rolled the dice with every one of our lives pulling that little stunt - and for what?" He didn't give Face a chance to answer. "It sure as _hell_ wasn't about saving lives."

Face's eyes narrowed, and something that was almost like a smirk crossed his lips. "Now there's a switch. _I_ rolled the dice with our lives? Damn. What is this world coming to?"

Hannibal growled. "What would you have done if there _hadn't _been a camp in the area, Face? You didn't know that there was. That was pure dumb luck."

"Well, good for those two men that I was feeling really lucky."

"And if your luck had failed? You'd taken a prisoner and left two bodies."

"If my luck had failed, it would've been three bodies and no prisoner."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed into slits. "And you would've expected me to just look the other way while you executed a prisoner?"

"Maybe we could all use some lessons on when to look the other way," he said pointedly. "And when _not _to."

"You got something to say, Lieutenant?" Hannibal's voice was low and threatening. "Drop the word games and say it."  
Face looked away, but it was certainly not a gesture that he was backing down. His posture reeked of passive aggression. "I think I've said just about all I have to say," he said darkly.

"Is that so?" Hannibal was anything but through. He took a step closer, seething. "You sabotaged – not just fucked up, _sabotaged _- a mission that could have saved countless lives for the chance to name drop. You better lay your fucking cards on the table."

"Alright." Face turned. Chin high, he put his shoulders back. His jaw was set, eyes blazing with anger. "I went after a couple of men who would've died at the hands of the VC if I hadn't. Which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you. Especially since I didn't even _know_ them, much less were they under my command."

The reaction was felt all the way around the room. Hannibal looked as if he'd just been struck. Cruiser, BA, Boston – they all straightened, exchanged glances, and looked to Hannibal to see how he would respond. For a long moment, nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The silence was deafening as the two officers stared each other down. A wicked smile crossed Face's lips.

"What's the matter, Hannibal? You wanted to see my hand? There it is. You gonna try'n dress me down? Pull rank? Offer some half-assed excuse for the fact that you'd leave your own man for dead while you go out there doing Bright Light for strangers?"

"Face, what the hell are you talking about?" Cruiser asked, confused.

Hannibal's shock subsided so suddenly, Face didn't even have a chance to react as he was shoved against the wall. "You think I abandoned Devon Young? Is that it?"

Face made no attempt to push him back, only glared furiously. "I'm not sure 'abandoned' is a strong enough word, Colonel."

Hannibal slammed Face back, letting his head bounce off the plywood wall. Face raised his arms, but before he had a chance to push Hannibal back, BA and Cruiser had approached from either side. They pulled the two of them apart, then quickly stepped back, not taking sides. Neither one of them had the slightest idea what the hell was going on.

Though he'd been forced a step back, Hannibal's anger was just as violent. "You'd better check your facts, Lieutenant," he growled. "I lost every man I had trying to save Young, and you have the balls to question my decision, and risk more lives to make a fucking _point_?"

Face stood still, glaring hard. If not for that dangerous - deadly - anger in his eyes, he would've seemed almost composed. "Yeah, I'm sure it broke your heart. Almost as much as it broke his wife's. His children's. Everyone he knew. Everyone who was told that he was dead. And in all the time since _you _let that happen, since _you _lost a member of _your_ team and pulled out and left him there, you haven't once gone back to find him.

"That's not my call," Hannibal growled. "You think I just make up these missions off the top of my head?"

Face glared. "Don't give me that. Westman would authorize just about anything you asked him for. You feed me this shit about team, and unity, and having each other's backs; you leftone of your own men behind to be _tortured _to death by the VC!"

The space that BA and Cruiser had put between them was gone in a flash, and Hannibal's fist made contact with Face's jaw so quick nobody had time to react. He didn't let Face fall away from him, but grabbed his shirt again and held him captive. Low cursing and name calling escaped his mouth, but no conscious thought was put into his words.  
This time, it took a bit longer, a bit more effort, _and_ some assistance from Boston to pull Hannibal back. But Face didn't return the blow, and didn't follow. He just lowered his head a fraction, eyes blazing, a subtle smirk on his face.

"Would it make you feel any better to beat the shit out of me, Hannibal?" he sneered. "Do you think that would make it any less true?"

BA had an arm across Hannibal's shoulders, and a worried look on his face. But he didn't know what to say. It was Cruiser that found words. "You need to calm the fuck down, Colonel," he whispered quietly. "This ain't like you."

Hannibal's glare never left his lieutenant, but Cruisers words hit home. He steadied himself against BA and took a deep breath, regaining his composure. All three of the men around him slowly let go as he lightly tapped BA's arm

He took a deep breath, regaining his composure. When he spoke again, his voice was still low and threatening, but there was control where there hadn't been before. "Lieutenant, if you want to question my command calls, that's fine. But don't you _ever_ question my loyalty to my men!"

"Oh, heaven forbid," Face answered with sarcasm. "If I started doing that, maybe they would too. And what the hell would you do with yourself if everybody woke up one morning without their rose colored glasses on, took a look at your track record, and realized just how many men you _did _lead to slaughter." He took a step forward, eyes dark and menacing. "It wasn't all rumors, was it, Colonel? Man, after man, after man…"

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "If you've been looking at my record, Face, you'd better look at it good and hard. You just happen to be on the only team in recon that hasn't lost an American in over twenty drops."

He half-laughed. "I also happen to be on the only team in recon that's done twenty drops in less than four months."

"Well, now that we've cleared that up, what the fuck are you trying to say? It's a war, Lieutenant!"

"Really? I thought we were just here having a party."

"Do you know the names of every man you've watched die?" Hannibal shot at him. "Because I do. Every man that has ever served under me and had his dog tags sent home. I know. And remember."

"Not hard to send dog tags home when your men don't _wear _them out in the field." His eyes were ice cold. "Out there, they don't even have that security. Who they are, what they do, their very existence... it's all tied to you. Ever think about that, Hannibal? The fact that you, Westman, and maybe some REMFs in Washington are the only people in the _world_ that even know Sergeant Young was taken alive? But hey, his family got his dog tags back. They can rest easy tonight knowing that he's at peace."

"You'd better think hard about that, Face," Hannibal warned. "You just sabotaged a top priority mission that would have saved countless lives. Soldiers are going to die because we can't intercept intelligence on arms shipments, ambushes, and those POW's you are so concerned about. As of this afternoon, Lieutenant, you have an unknown and constantly growing number of deaths on your head. But don't worry - their CO's will send their dog tags home to their families so that they can think their sons' deaths were for something... not because of someone."

"Better someone who used the opportunity to save lives than to build a reputation."

Hannibal's temper flared. "Jesus Christ, Face, this is a war! People die! That is the nature of war. You are a soldier, Face, _act _like one!"

Face's jaw clenched, but he didn't speak.

"I don't know what the hell has gotten into you - all this shit you've been pulling lately!"

"What shit would that be? _Sir_."

"You disobeyed a direct order, Lieutenant."

"Sorry," he said dryly. He wasn't sorry. "I guess I let my personal pursuits get in the way of the chain of command, the job, and... oh, hell, just about everything we're here for." His look toward Hannibal was direct, a pointed glare that didn't waver. "I'm sure you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Colonel?"

Hannibal knew the accusation wasn't lost on anybody in the room. He didn't care. "You fucked up when you brought a personal matter into the field, boy." He felt a command tone slipping into his voice. "I asked you before we even went out there if we were going to have a problem. And what was it you said?"

"Not to underestimate what I'm capable of?"

"I'm not into sabotage," Hannibal spoke over the younger man. "Something you defined as 'putting my own selfish gain above the welfare of the team'."

Face nodded, once. "Yeah, I'd say that's an adequate definition. What's your point?"

"That is _exactly_ what you did out there today. This team was picked specifically for this job because it was so valuable. It could have saved so many lives. Could have made a difference." Hannibal pushed the growing anger back down.

"Don't fool yourself, Hannibal. Nothing makes a difference out here."

"Our reputations are staked on each other," Hannibal quoted again. "And because of you, we failed."

"And what did I gain out of this?" Face could sense Hannibal's anger, in spite of his attempts to hide it. It was like fuel heaped on the fire. "A pissing match with you?"

"I don't know. I sure as hell can't figure out what you were trying to get out of it."

"I don't have a whole lot to selfishly gain from you, Hannibal. You've got jack _shit _to offer me. I bet those two guys in the dispensary would have something to say about what they had to gain but - I forgot - one life just isn't worth all that much, is it? Better to have a sparkling reputation."

Hannibal ignored the bait. "You keep talking like you made some noble effort, some self-sacrificing decision to rescue those men. But you and I both know exactly what you did out there today. You want to ignore the fact that you jeopardized the lives of everyone on this team with a POW mission we weren't prepared for –"

"But pulled off successfully without so much as a scraped knee."

Hannibal didn't pause. "Or the hundreds, God forbid _thousands_ of lives that are going to be lost because we have no intelligence coming in." He paused for a breath, and disappointment slipped into his voice as he continued. "You live with two saved lives for all of the death you caused today."

Face didn't flinch. His expression was emotionless as he stared him down. "I'll do that."

"Let me know how you find a way to sleep at night. Because the only way I can is by knowing that I did everything I could to prevent as much death and destruction as possible."

Face shrugged. "If you're having trouble sleeping, maybe you should give Elaine a call. I'm sure she'd be happy to help with that."

Hannibal didn't flinch. He let the statement hang, surprised that it didn't bother him. Face watched him, expressionless, waiting for something. After a long pause, Hannibal finally spoke again. "You want to discuss power plays, Face?"

Face shrugged. "By all means. I'm not quite stupid enough to think that I haven't already crossed the line. My record is going to become a matter of public knowledge as soon as you walk out of this room and make a phone call. So what the hell? I've got nothing to lose."

Hannibal smiled confidently. Even as he addressed the whole team, his eyes never left Face. "What the lieutenant here is alluding to, is that I've been having an affair with Elaine Westman."

Face smiled faintly, keeping his eyes on Hannibal. That hadn't been at all what he'd been expecting, and it amused him as much as it confused him. Blank stares on the faces of all three men standing nearby turned to wide-eyed realizations that slowly set in. Cruiser covered his face with his hand as he muttered something that sounded an awful lot like "fucking hell". BA's startled cry of "What? Elaine Westman!" was ignored, as was Boston's "You've got to be kidding me" laugh.

"Nice, Colonel," Face said. "Would you care to call a press conference? I'll bring the photos and you can bring the firsthand testimony. We'll give a signed copy to the general, huh?"

"Sure," Hannibal retorted. "Maybe we can distribute copies of that lengthy confession you wrote up proclaiming yourself a drug runner, and thief, too."  
Face's smile grew. "Actually, it was a lot more than drug running and stealing. There were all kinds of charges, remember? Everything from fraudulent enlistment to pandering."

Hannibal gave the young lieutenant a pensive look. "Your right, Face. Fucking the general's wife is bound to get me twenty years in a prison cell next to you." He paused, almost feeling sorry for the kid. "This was definitely the smart play on your end."

Face shrugged, and waited. He could feel the exhaustion of nearly two years in Vietnam finally sweeping over him - as if he'd never let down before, never let go. It felt good to let go, to not care, to not think. It was over and he was fine with that. But he was surprised how _physical_ the relief was. Twenty years in a prison cell. It wasn't like he had anything better to do...

He sighed as he turned away and headed to his bunk, unbuttoning the blood-soaked shirt as he went. "You know where to tell the MPs to find me." He shrugged his shoulders out of the shirt and dropped it on the floor as he perched on the edge of the bed. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

Hannibal sighed as he watched the young man resigned to his fate, he turned towards the door without addressing the others, and left.


	24. Chapter Twenty Three

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

BA found Hannibal in the motor pool, of all places. He might have almost thought Hannibal had come there looking for him - since it was the one place he could usually find him - except that the colonel didn't offer any reaction to seeing him. No reason, nothing he needed, no greeting at all. He simply glanced at him, then looked away.

He was sitting in the front seat of one of the jeeps, his foot up on the frame where the door belonged. A lit cigar was in one hand, and the other held a drink of something clear in an unmarked bottle. BA couldn't venture to guess whether it was water or something stronger. Right now, he couldn't venture to guess about much of anything. Nothing made much sense.

He approached, unsure, and slid into the passenger seat. For a minute, it was quiet before he finally spoke. "Hannibal..." He hesitated, not sure he wanted to ask. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. "You ain't _really_ sleepin' with the general's wife..."

Hannibal closed his eyes at the question. Direct and straight to the heart of the matter - anything short of that and it wouldn't have been BA. He reopened his eyes, and nodded slightly. "Yes, BA. I am. Have been for years."

BA's brow furrowed deeply. The look on his face was one of hurt and confusion, so uncharacteristic it was disturbing. "Why?"

There was no answer for that. It was a million reasons at once and none. "I don't know BA."

"You…? Years? You been doin' it for years?"

Hannibal took a drink. "It started when I was a captain."

"Aw, Colonel."  
"And it just never stopped." He paused for a long moment, staring out the windshield as he thought quietly. "It was a thrill, back then. Now it's just… a habit."

"I thought you and General Westman were friends, man. How can you...?" He didn't finish, just looked away, shaking his head.

It wasn't accusative. The disappointment was blatant, and it made Hannibal sigh deeply. "I don't know BA," he repeated. "I guess I just don't think about it."

"You still doin' it?" BA asked. "You gotta stop, man. You could get in big trouble."

"I know," Hannibal whispered.

BA held his head in his hand, and was quiet for a long minute. "Is that what this is all about? You an' Face? How you been fighting with each other? 'Cause he found out? An' didn't like it?"

"Yes and no."

"What's that mean?"

Hannibal hesitated for a long moment. "Face is on a short leash for a lot of reasons. But what's been going on lately is… it's a power struggle. He just didn't realize he didn't have a chance at winning."

"If he go to Westman, we all got a problem."

Hannibal nodded. "The thing is, he'll be going down with me. To be honest, I'm kind of surprised that he did it."

"Did what?"

Hannibal shrugged. "He let me throw him in jail." He paused, and frowned deeply. "He _pushed _me to throw him in jail. Almost like he wanted it."

"Maybe he did. Maybe he wants to tell Westman."

"I'm sure that he will. I'm just surprised that it was worth it to him. It'll get me a dishonorable discharge, end my career. And for that, he's getting a couple decades in prison. I thought he was smarter than that."

BA didn't like that. As he mulled it over for a few minutes, Hannibal put his head back and closed his eyes, breathing deep. "What's gonna happen, Hannibal?" BA asked. "What's gonna happen if he talks to Westman?"

"I already told you. I'll be discharged."

"That ain't right, man. You good out here. We need you."

Hannibal smiled faintly, eyes still closed. "I think Westman will be the only one in this whole mess who's right if he gives me a dishonorable discharge."

BA growled under his breath. "Man, how can he do it?"

"Westman?"

"No, man. Face."

"He doesn't trust me. Doesn't respect me. How can he not?"

"If all he knew about you was that his buddy died when he was with you and everybody sayin' how you was crazy, why'd he even join up?"

"I don't know."

BA looked down, quiet for a long moment. "Did you know? About his buddy? About how he felt?"

"Not until recently."

BA's pained look was saturated with questions. But they were questions Hannibal couldn't answer, and he knew it. "Maybe…" BA tried hesitantly. "Maybe he just dunno _how_ to trust. Maybe he could _learn_."

Hannibal sighed as he shook his head. Full of resigned sadness, Hannibal finished the last of his drink, then slowly slid out of the jeep. "If he doesn't know me by now," he said quietly, "I don't think there's a damn thing I could do to convince him."

**1969**

Face was pacing in the tiny eight-by-ten cell. He still hadn't washed, hadn't changed since he'd come back from the field. Bloody, dirty, and drenched in sweat in the wet heat of non-circulating air, he had definitely seen better days. He'd shed his shirt, and uncovered the half-healed wounds from the shrapnel in his arm. Three weeks since that injury – God, it felt like forever ago – and it wasn't completely healed. In fact, it didn't look good at all. But if it hurt, it seemed to be the last thing on his mind.

Cruiser watched him for a long moment, through the bars. If Face was aware of his presence, he didn't acknowledge it. But if he wasn't, he must have been ridiculously deep in thought. Cruiser wasn't exactly hiding.

"Your arm looks infected."

Face stopped, glanced at him, and quickly looked away. "What do you want, Cruiser?"

His tone was hard, but it lacked... substance. And even in the dimly lit cell, the streaks on his grease-painted face were a dead giveaway. He'd probably spent most of the night crying. Cruiser shifted nervously as he looked away, not wanting to see it.

"Just came to see how you were doing." It was a genuine answer, though he suspected the reply Face gave would be less genuine.

"I'm fine."

Sure enough…

Face paused, and pushed a hand through his sweat soaked hair, his back towards Cruiser. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. What the hell happened back there?"

"It doesn't matter." Face turned to the cot and sat down on the edge of it, head in his hands. "Just forget it."

"It's not that simple Face." Cruiser leaned into the bars. "I need to know."  
Face was on his feet again in a flash, spinning towards Cruiser. "Fuck you, Sergeant; you _don't_ need to know!"

Cruiser stayed where he was. Scare tactics didn't mean much from opposite sides of bars. Besides, the venom that should've been laced into words like that was missing entirely. In fact, Face's eyes were wide and frantic. Almost panicked. Maybe he'd finally realized how this was going to end for him.

"Face…" Cruiser kept his tone as mellow as he could, not responding to the antagonism. "I came down here because I do need to know. I need to understand what that was all about. Do you actually _believe _that shit? About Hannibal abandoning Devon?"

Face tried to stare him down. But shaking hands and watering eyes prevented it. He turned away, walked to the opposite wall, and leaned forward against it, head on his arms. "Go away, Cruiser."

Cruiser stood still for a moment, not quite sure how to proceed. He didn't like seeing Face like this. It felt… wrong. "What do you know about Devon's capture, Face?"

Face didn't move, didn't turn, and didn't raise his voice above a whisper. "I'm not gonna talk about this."

"Fine." Cruiser felt his patience waver and with it, his patient tone. "But you're gonna listen. Because you were dead fucking wrong saying what you did to Hannibal."

Face didn't answer. He was still for a long moment before he turned, put his head in his hands, and slid his back down the wall until his elbows were on his knees. For the first time since Cruiser had met him, Face actually looked like a child, a half-dozen years his junior. Cruiser sighed. Damn it, that was _not _the response he'd been hoping for.

"Come on man," Cruiser almost pleaded, his frustration slipping through. "How many missions you been on with Hannibal?" He didn't wait for an answer; that tactic hadn't gotten him anywhere thus far. "And how many of those times have you seen him abandon his team? Or put himself before everyone else? Or even _not _in the field – how many times has he not gone to bat for us when we needed him?"

Face hid behind his hands. "It's different," he said quietly. "I'm not like you, Cruiser."

"What do you mean?" Cruiser demanded. "You can't see something with your own eyes and draw a conclusion based on said event?"

Face didn't answer.

Cruiser's irritation at the non-responsive prisoner was growing. "What the hell is it about him that scares you so much?" he growled, his voice low. "Is it just that you find him threatening? Westman has this confession over you and revokes it on Hannibal's say. You can't deal with authority? Or do you just _have_ to have collateral over everyone above you?"

Face's eyes slipped out of focus as he stared silently at the floor. His demeanor changed so quickly – passive resignation to guarded silence - Cruiser knew he'd hit a nerve.

"That's it isn't it." It was at once a question and a realization. "You can't trust Hannibal because he is in a position of authority. It's just that fucking simple."

"Not quite that simple," Face replied. There was an edge to his tone that sparked anger in Cruiser.

"Well, I got a news flash for you, Lieutenant. That confession you signed? He used it to _help_ you."

"_Westman_ used it to help me," Face clarified. "And what the hell do you know about it, anyways?"

"Well, gee, Face, ain't that kinda the point? I don't know. 'Cause Hannibal kept that secret for you. But you couldn't trust him. And now you're gonna spend the next twenty years in a box with no say over anything you do. That sure was a smart choice, LT."

Face's eyes flashed as he looked up, through the bars at Cruiser. "You really do that?" he challenged. "You just _choose _to trust people and then you do it?"

"He chose to trust _you_," Cruiser growled.

Face looked away.

Cruiser paused, lowering his voice. "He took you in regardless of that record, staked his own reputation on you. He didn't even _watch_ you. You were always free to come and go. Alone, with me, with whores, with anyone you wanted. And if I'd had any idea that I was causing you to betray his trust when I challenged you to get that car, you can bet that I would've sooner shot myself in the head than breathed a word of it to you."

Face sighed deeply. For a long moment, he was silent. Cruiser waited, eyes narrowed, demanding a comeback. Face _would _talk to him. This could very well be the last time he saw him before he went off to face a military court.

Slowly, Face dropped his hands into his lap and sat back, head tipped back against the wall. "I can't do this, Cruiser," he finally whispered. "I just cannot do this anymore."

"Do what, Face?"

Face hesitated for a long moment. When he finally spoke again, it was low and monotone, without feeling. "I can't be this person. This person on this team who... who bonds and trusts and cares. It's fucking exhausting and I just... I cannot do it anymore. And I don't care how it ends. I just want it to stop."

Cruiser listened quietly, glaring through the bars. What the hell kind of an explanation was that? But he didn't answer. He let Face continue.

"I stood out in front of a building full of VC, guns pointed right at me... and I realized how absolutely ludicrous it was that _everybody_ thought it was because I had such great faith. And that's so far from the truth."

He paused for a moment, and shook his head as he dropped it forward, into his hands. "And I have to walk away from that, and stand in a room with some general who thinks he knows everything there is to know about me, and listen to him talk about how impressed he is with my courage and trust and the whole time he's talking, the only thing I can think about is telling him the truth about his wife's affair and actually _making_ this all stop."

"So why didn't you?" Cruiser asked coldly.

"Because." He paused for a long moment. "Because I wanted the satisfaction of being able to do it to Hannibal's face."

"That is fucked up, Lieutenant." Cruiser wasn't able to keep the anger out his voice anymore. He didn't try. "You risked our lives, sabotaged an _important_ mission, so that you could dangle Westman's wife over Hannibal's head?"

"What happened out there had nothing to do with Westman's wife."

"Bullshit! That's where this all got started. You two have been going back and forth for the past week, some fucking power play. And we trust each other with our lives out there, but you threw us to the dogs for something nobody cares about anyway?"

Face smiled faintly, his eyes distant. "Yeah. You're right. Fucked up."  
Cruiser growled. He was starting to get familiar with that smile of his. It reeked of passive aggression, and made Cruiser want to put him through the fucking wall. Instead, he kept a firm grip on his calm, glaring through the bars at Face.

"What the hell is your problem, Lieutenant? He never did one goddamn thing to you!" He saw Face open his mouth, but didn't give him a chance to start. "And don't you _dare_ throw Devon's name into this because clearly you don't have a clue what happened on that mission."

"I can fill in the blanks."

"Yeah? Well guess what, Face, you filled them in all wrong." Cruiser reached his hand through the bars to point at the huddled man. "Let me tell you something about Devon Young, since you weren't there when it happened or even in SOG to hear the fallout. Hannibal's team was ambushed and he lost every member on that team trying to save Young. _That's_ what he was reprimanded for. _That's_ what he did wrong. And that's where he got that reputation that you so aptly pointed out wasn't all a rumor. You wouldn't believe how the fucking rumors flew about how he didn't give a shit about his men. And all the higher ups said he was careless and those men had died senselessly. And you know what? They were right. They did. But that's just the kind of commander that Hannibal is. Call it a flaw – it's his _big _one. He doesn't leave men behind. And if you were smart, you would've been on your knees praying to God that you could end up being half the officer, half the soldier, half the _man_ that he is, and thanking him that he had pity on your lying, cheating, thieving ass, and made you one of those people that he would lose everything for!"

The lieutenant's face was turned away. Cruiser paused a moment to catch his breath, then started again since Face seemed to have nothing to say.

"They hung that mission over his head for months. And to this day, everybody sees it as his biggest failure. But I'll tell you what, Face, I would follow that man to hell and back because I know, no matter what happens, if we don't all come back, _none_ of us are coming back. That's the team you joined, Face. That's the man you serve under."

"If that's true, then why did he come back?"

Cruiser's blood boiled at that accusation. "Because they came – _I _came; I was on the medevac – and pulled him out of the goddamn jungle where he was bleeding to death! And in the weeks that he spent in the hospital after that, they _finally _made him believe there wasn't a damn thing he could've done to save Devon. Not then."

Cruiser hesitated briefly, turning to pace a few steps away before he spun back toward the cell. "Jesus Christ, Face. Do you think it's a coincidence that he went _looking_ for the guy who had the record on POW snatches, to put him on this team? We all came to him, Face. But he went to you. It sure as hell wasn't for your charming personality or impressive military record."

Face said nothing, and Cruiser paced a few more times before stopping at the bars, gripping them with white knuckles. "You make me so mad, Face, I just wanna put your head through this fucking wall. That you can't see what's right in front of you. It's one thing for me to stand here and say I would've died for you. But it's a whole new level when I can stand here and tell you with full confidence that we _all_ would've died for you. _That's_ the kind of team you had, Face. _That's_ the team you fucked over. 'Cause when you turned on Hannibal, you turned on all of us. So you can think about that for the next twenty years. Be a martyr. Die for a fucking cause. But to say that you're dishonoring Devon Young's legacy by using him as an excuse is only scratching the surface of how fucked up you are."

Cruiser paused, giving him one last chance to offer anything in his defense. But Face didn't move. He didn't even look up. After a few lingering moments of silence, Cruiser finally growled. "Fine," he said coldly. "Fine. You go to hell, Lieutenant. And take all your fucking trust issues with you. I hope you're damn proud of yourself."

Without another word, Cruiser shoved off of the bars, turned, and walked away, leaving Face huddled on the floor of the cell.


	25. Chapter Twenty Four

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

**1978**

"Face? What are you thinking about?"

The arguing had turned to silence. Tense silence. At long length, Face had finally stepped out of the car, risking the exposure for a chance to get some air. The phone hadn't rung yet.

He didn't answer Jessica. Leaning back on the hood of the car with his head down, hand across his forehead, he was clearly as deep in thought as she'd suspected he was.

Her hand on his shoulder made him flinch, and he looked up. "Face?" she asked, clearly worried.

"I'm fine."

She stared at him for a long moment, and hung her head. "You've been through a lot with your team, haven't you?" she finally asked, her voice low.

He sighed. Easier to answer her than to try and convince her that it was better not to talk about it. "Yeah."

"You think they're okay in there?"

He gave a brief half-laugh at that. "Hannibal? I'm sure he's just fine."

"And BA?"

"Him, too."

"So why are you so worried?"

Face didn't answer.

"Are you sure he'll call?" Jessica asked. "I mean… he will, right?"

Face frowned, staring at the phone. If they were in trouble, and needed him to come to their aid, every moment he spent waiting here put them in greater danger. If they weren't, and he walked away, Murdock would be looking for him, thinking the same thing. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes more, and he was going into that bar with Paulie. Five minutes would give him just enough time to figure out what the hell he was going to say once he got in there.

"He'll call if he's able," Face answered.

"How, uh… How do we find them? If he's not."

"I don't know," he admitted. "I'm working on that." They could be anywhere. A "warehouse" wasn't exactly specific.

"Who is this guy?" Paulie demanded. "Who're we waitin' to hear from?"

Face turned and glared briefly at him. "Get back in the car. This isn't a good place, remember?"

"How do you know he's gonna call?" Paulie's voice was bordering on frantic. "How do you know, man? He could be –"

"Paulie!" Jessica interrupted. "For God's sake, shut up!"

Paulie fell silent, and Jessica sighed. Another long, tense silence descended on them as Face stared at the bar, his thoughts running over possible lines and methods to extract the information he needed from the men inside.

"Hey, Face?"

Jessica's voice interrupted his thoughts, and he glanced at her. "Yeah?"

"If Murdock is… unstable…" She hesitated on her words, and Face's eyes narrowed slightly. "I mean, he lives in a psych ward, right? That's what he said."

Face turned again to look out the window. "As long as he's breathing, Jess, the number one thing on his mind is going to be how to get to a phone. I can promise you that."

**1978**

The phone rang for almost a full minute. But this time, Face picked up. "Hello?"

Murdock let out a sigh of relief. "Aw, Faceman, it's good to hear your voice."

"Where the hell are you! What took you so long to call?"

"What took you so long to answer? This is the third time I called."

"I never heard it ring and we've been here over a half hour."

Murdock sighed. "Well, I must've called last time right before you got there. There ain't a pay phones near where they took BA and Hannibal and I don't like leavin' them in there without contact and then wandering away so I won't even see if they take 'em someplace else. Especially if you ain't even there when I call. Wanted to give you plenty of time to get there this time."

Face sighed. "Alright, Murdock. So where are you?"

Murdock looked up at the street sign nearest where he was standing. "They got 'em in a warehouse, like BA said. It backed up against a field. Got barbed wire fence around the back of it, parking lot in the front. Van is down the street a ways. We only went about five miles south down Towson Street. Go right on Fifth and you'll run right into the van."

"Alright, I'll be there in a minute."

Murdock hung up the phone and heard the coins jangle as they dropped into the reservoir. He scanned his surroundings instinctively, but nothing had changed. A few cars, an unthreatening Mexican man smoking a cigarette outside the party store on the corner, litter scuttling along the street in the breeze. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis and headed back toward the van at a brisk walk. There wasn't much he could do until Face got there, and he knew it. But he still didn't like being away from where Hannibal and BA were being held prisoner. Maybe he should've taken the van to the store, so he could've gotten there and back sooner.

He cut across the field and walked a block down the street, his eyes flickering frequently to the large, blue building. It had been recently painted, which made it stand out from the others on the street. On one side, industrial buildings. On the other side, residential. He couldn't imagine anyone ever wanting to live so close to factories and warehouses.

Even when he got back to the van, he wouldn't have contact with the inside. His pace slowed a little. When he got there, all he would do is sit in the back and wait. He'd already checked the entire perimeter, and knew it. He needed to get inside. For all he knew, Hannibal and BA could be dead already.

He forced that thought from his mind.

He was still a few yards from the van when a car pulled up behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder and came to a stop as he saw Face in the driver's seat. Almost before the car had come to a complete stop, Face was out of the car, leaving his two passengers in the middle of an argument muffled by the windows. Face's expression made it clear that the family reunion hadn't been pleasant. Murdock smirked slightly as Face tucked his pistol into the back of his pants, under his jacket.

"Y'alright?"

Face shook his head, rolling his eyes. "I'm so glad I never had siblings."

Murdock chuckled. "You had dozens when you were young."

"Yeah, but we never argued like _that_."

"Never had a big enough reason to?"

Murdock turned and walked back to the van. Face stayed right on his heels. "I was thinkin'," Murdock started as he pulled the back door open and crawled in. Face stayed outside the van, one eye on the car's passengers. "We've got more than enough firepower to get in there. Perimeter ain't all that secure. But unless we're gonna kill these guys, getting Hannibal and BA out just puts us back at square one. They still want that guy you got in your backseat. They could still go after Jessica to get him. Especially if we piss 'em off by shootin' up their warehouse."

"I met the guys they hired," Face said quietly, leaning on the door. "They showed up with AKs and shot his condo to hell. And his girlfriend."

Murdock frowned deeply. "Way to be subtle."

"Yeah, tell me about it. Cops were on that place almost before I was out."

"Amateurs?" Murdock guessed. "Or do you think they were going for the 'blaze of glory'?"

"I don't know. But they did blow up Jessica's house. And that wasn't exactly subtle, either."

Murdock shrugged, and shook his head. "I dunno, Face."

Face sighed as he looked toward the warehouse. "We need to reestablish communication with them," he said firmly. "I don't like them being in there without any contact."

"Yeah, neither do I," Murdock agreed. After a moment, he smiled. "We need one of Hannibal's plans."

Face raised a brow. "You have one in mind?"

Murdock grinned. "Part of one."

"Part of one," Face repeated uneasily.

"We just gotta think like Hannibal."

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment before a nervous half-smile crossed Face's lips. They'd been working with Hannibal long enough that they both knew full well how to think like him. With a sigh, Face nodded. "Think like Hannibal," he repeated. "Right."

**1978**

Face could not believe he was doing this.

"Why not just call the police?" Jessica hung back, watching as he leaned against the inside of the phone booth.

"Because it's not what Hannibal would do," Face answered.

"So?"

Face sighed. There was no way in hell he could defend this plan against her skepticism – especially when he felt it himself. There was no way to make her understand that if he wanted a crazy plan to work the crazy way that it would for a jazz-crazed Hannibal, he had something of a formula to follow. It wasn't hard – Hannibal used a lot of the same tactics over and over. All he had to do was aim for a performance that was way over the top and have a decent enough reaction time to catch the pieces when they fell. Since the "military wild card" hadn't failed Hannibal yet, it was a pretty good guess that it would've been his move if he was out here making the calls. Face didn't have to be a genius to figure that out.

"The military will be much more responsive," he answered, waiting for the phone to be picked up. "It'll also take them a little longer to get here than the police, and we need the time."

"Not that much longer," Murdock said quietly. "Lynch set up residence right in the LA Air Force Base."

"And you're _wanted _by the military!" Jessica reminded. "How can you –"

Face held up a hand to silence her as the ringing stopped with a quiet shuffling sound. "Col. Lynch speaking."

"Col. Lynch, this is Detective Paul Better from the Alabine police department," Face started in a voice just slightly higher than natural. He could not _believe _he was doing this…

"What can I do for you, detective?"

"We just received an emergency call a few minutes ago. Protocol says we're supposed to contact you with anything pertaining to the A-Team, right?"

Lynch paused for just a moment. "Yes, that's right."

"Well, apparently, they've taken a hostage of some kind. She managed to get to a phone and call 9-1-1, and we called you right away."

"A hostage?" The frown on Lynch's face was audible in his words. "That doesn't sound like the A-Team."

"Hey, I'm just following protocol. If you want me to just send a couple of guys out there to check it out, I can do that. I don't want to waste your time."

"No, no," Lynch protested. "If it is them, they'll try to get away as soon as they realize we're onto them. Do you have the address?"

Face grinned. "Absolutely."

He hung up a moment later and looked to Jessica. She was staring at him, worried. "Does this plan have a phase two, I hope?"

"It does," he assured her. "Now, how much money do you have in the bank?"


	26. Chapter Twenty Five

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**

"You sure you can do this?" Face asked, eyeing her carefully.

She swallowed hard as she nodded. "All I have to do is go in, give them the money, and tell them I'll pay the rest and clear my brother's debt as soon as the banks open on Monday."

"They won't buy it," Paulie mumbled, covering his face with his hand. "They won't buy it. You don't know how much money I owe them. They'll take her hostage. I know they will."

Face ignored him. "When they take you hostage, what do you tell them?"

She took a deep breath. "That Hannibal is a very important person – I don't know who or why he's so important so they'll have to ask him – and the Army paid me to come in here and find out if he was still alive. And if I don't report back, they're going to come down and shoot the place to hell." She frowned. "That sounds even harder to believe than the truth."

"You don't have to sell it," Face assured her. "The situation should sell itself."

"So they're not supposed to believe me?"

"Not really. We're hoping they put you with Hannibal. If they do, what do you need to tell him?"

"Something about Col. Lynch?"

"Col. Lynch is coming to get him out. And if they _don't _put you with him?"

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Just stay calm."

"You think you can do that?"

She nodded. Then she shut her eyes as she took in a slow, deep breath. "What happens if something goes wrong with this big elaborate plan of yours?"

"You think _this _is elaborate?" Murdock chuckled.

"Look, why we gotta send her in there?" Paulie demanded. "They could kill her."

"She's a legitimate go-between with a legitimate reason to buy you out of debt," Face sighed. "That validates her story."

"I thought they weren't supposed to believe my story."

"They're not." Face smiled. "But if they do, all the better. And you need to make them believe that you _expect _them to."

"They won't kill her if they think she's worth more alive," Murdock added, studying Paulie. "If she's bringing them money, she's willing to pay. That makes her valuable."

"We'll be listening to you the entire time," Face reminded her, sensing the uneasiness as she wrestled with that logic. "As long as they don't find that bug, make sure Hannibal knows it's there." Face checked once more to make sure it was hidden by her shirt. "We can't talk to you, but you can talk to us."

"And if they do find it?"

"Don't panic. Just remember your plan B."

She took another deep breath. "The Army sent me in there to find out if the guy they kidnapped was still alive."

"Right."

"I don't know how that's supposed to help, but –"

"Just trust me," Face assured her. He watched her carefully. "You're just going to have to trust me on this one."

She swallowed hard. "God, this is so crazy, Face."

"Hey." He held both of her shoulders and tipped his head down until she looked up and met his stare. "If you don't want to do this, you tell me now. We'll find another way. I don't want you going in there unless you're a hundred percent sure you can do it."

She studied him for a long moment, then turned to glance at Murdock. The same serious expression was on his face. Finally, she nodded. "I can do it," she said confidently.

**1969**

If anyone could've done it, it was Face. Hannibal lingered outside of the bar, staring through the grated window as Face waved the bartender away. His glass was still half full, and he hadn't touched it in the past five minutes that Hannibal had been watching him. Clearly, he wasn't there to get drunk.

_ "What're you drinking, kid?" _

_ The sergeant turned, eyes narrowed. "What's it to you?"_

_ Hannibal smiled to himself. The flash of anger and wary distrust was plainly visible even though the kid was plastered. "Is that your way of saying you're too drunk to remember?"_

_ A roll of the eyes, a dismissive gesture. "Go to hell."_

_ "That'd be 'go to hell, Sir.'" Hannibal gestured to the bartender. He could feel the kid's eyes on him, and gave him a quick glance. "Colonel John Smith."_

_ He offered a hand, but Sergeant Peck had already turned away. "You'll forgive me if I don't salute." _

Hannibal had seen it from the start. The wariness, the cold distrust. But surely that must have faded. It was natural to be wary of someone unknown. But it had been almost a year now – working together, living together. Surely his own conclusions should have overruled the rumors. It made no sense that the old wounds, the secondhand testimony of other men, should be held in higher regard than Face's own experience. Face knew for a fact that Hannibal would put his life on the line for him. He had to know it. How could he not know it?

The trust in the field was implicit; they all relied on each other for their next breath. If Face had lacked that trust, he would not have been able to function. Hannibal had worked with those soldiers – the ones who weren't able to trust. He was always relieved to see them walk away… if they lived that long. Unfortunately, they often didn't. Knowing that was what ultimately had convinced Westman that it was not only beneficial, but prudent to authorize Hannibal's team. If Hannibal found the right team of soldiers who _could _trust that deeply, that team would be unstoppable.

That team _had _been unstoppable.

The memory of Devon Young – and the team that had died for him - still lingered in the dark, haunting his dreams. It was a failure that he would never forgive. Westman had forgiven it. He'd even allowed Hannibal to rebuild his team. "Soldiers die," he'd said. "Just thank God that you're not dead yet and get back out there." It had been easier said than done, and Hannibal still lived with the constant fear that someday, it would happen all over again. But it was a risk he had to take. If he let that fear cripple him, he would be worthless to the Army, let alone himself.

The second team he'd formed – Harrison, Brenner, Peck and Baracus – was solid. At least, he'd felt that it was. The men had no fear, and complete confidence. And nothing stood in their way. Bullet wounds here and there, shrapnel and broken bones, all of that healed in time. And after every injury, they got right back up, and right back out on the field. He'd never asked any of them to stay when their six or twelve month tours were finished. They'd acted on their own, and every one of them had signed on for voluntary indefinite status. It was unspoken, and yet they all knew it – they were in this together, come hell or high water.

How could he have so misjudged Face? And how could he have so failed, in all this time, to establish trust, even if it had not been there in the beginning? He didn't understand. And if nothing else, he needed to understand. If it could be fixed, he would give his right arm to fix it. Too many months, too many drops had bonded him to that kid just as strongly as to the rest of the team, and he couldn't simply write him off even if he wanted to. He frowned as he considered that. It was quite possible that he was even _more _bonded to Face. He saw his own eyes when he looked at that sergeant – passionate, reckless determination that threw caution to the wind. But he'd always expected, always thought, that he saw trust there, too. Loyalty. Dedication. All of those things that the kid somehow seemed to lack.

He was young. Hannibal had to give him that. He didn't know just how young he'd been when he'd fraudulently enlisted, and he went through eighteen months of training before he'd ever set foot in Vietnam. But if he had to guess, Hannibal didn't expect that he was older than nineteen even now. That would've made him about seventeen when he came over, and Vietnam sure was a fucked up place for a seventeen-year-old.

He'd never asked why; Face had never offered. But Hannibal suspected there was even more to the story of distrust and self-sufficient anger in the sixteen years – give or take – before the Army. What the hell had that kid been through, that he could put his life in the hands of another man… but he couldn't trust that man to have his best interest in mind. _Without _blackmail.

Hannibal sighed as he glanced up and down the street, then checked his watch. How long before the MPs realized Face was missing? How long before they came for him? As Hannibal looked back through the grate, the words echoed in his mind.

_ "It's going to take an awful lot of string-pulling to get you reassigned to me and with a clean slate. I can think of quite a few soldiers who are more available, and less insubordinate."_

_ The sergeant's eyes flashed. "Then why the hell are we talking?" _

_ "Because you hold the record on POW snatches and every man I've talked to says you're good on the ground. Because I've talked to your CO, and to your team, and I've heard their version of your captured property charges. Because they tell me you have a way with people – although I certainly wouldn't guess it from looking at you right now – and you can get things. Materials, equipment, medical supplies – things that nobody else can find. Because your test scores are eye catching. Because you're 21 – or is it 18? – years old and you've already done a full rotation in 'Nam and extended it to join SOG. And because when I came looking for you in the stockade, I found you in a bar."_

That was where he found him again. And his reasons for considering Face worthy of a place on his team hadn't changed. But all of that meant nothing if the kid didn't have trust. And if Face couldn't explain that – with a _good _explanation, one that Hannibal could actually do something about – then he would not have him under his command. Even if that meant losing his command.

**1978**

"What do you mean he got away?"

Hannibal looked toward where Roy's angry voice was penetrating the boxes stacked around them.

"There was a guy there," an unfamiliar voice reported.

"What guy?"

"I dunno, he was blond, almost six foot, early twenties…"

Hannibal and BA exchanged glances, and smirks. Early twenties? Face would be flattered.

"He had a gun."

"You all had guns! What the hell do I pay you for?"

"Yeah, but he shot Travis. And then the cops came. We got outta there as fast as we could."

The response was muffled, and angry growl that Hannibal couldn't understand. A moment later, Roy Smith rounded the stack of boxes and placed the barrel of a pistol weapon against Hannibal's forehead. "Who the hell is your blond friend?" he demanded, pushing Hannibal back on his bound hands.

"Blond friend?" Hannibal answered, almost casually. "I don't know what you mean."

Roy growled, shoving his head back with the gun. "Don't play games with me! I could shoot you right here and now!"

"No, you don't wanna do that," Hannibal informed.

"Oh yeah? Why not?"

"Because you'll never get your money back if you're in jail. And that's what you're ultimately after, isn't it? You're after Paulie Summers, right?"

Roy glared down at him. "What's it to you?" he demanded.

"Well, maybe, I could help you find Paulie." Hannibal smiled. "And maybe not. But either way, killing me isn't going to get you any closer to finding him, now is it?"

Hannibal saw the blow coming. He braced for it, but didn't try to avoid it. As the gun cracked against the side of his skull, he immediately felt the blood drip down the side of his face.

Roy turned back to the men standing behind him, just out of view. "Find him!" he ordered. "I'm not about to just let that man walk away after all he's taken from me!"


	27. Chapter Twenty Six

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**

Jessica was still twenty yards from the front of the building when a man stepped out and stood in the doorway. "Can I help you?"

From the back seat of the car, parked a safe distance away, Face was watching her. In a van on the other side of the street, Murdock was listening. Inside the warehouse were two Green Berets who would do damn near anything to protect her. Knowing all of this, she took in a deep breath and drew herself up to her full height.

"I'm Paulie Summers' sister," she called back. She held up the briefcase. "I have money."

A long pause, and the man talked into a two-way radio. Then he stepped back and gestured for her to come closer. With steps as sure as she could manage, she walked forward, heels clicking on the cement parking lot. Through the doors, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. There were boxes stacked all around, and a small card table just to the left of the door where two men sat with pistols lying in their laps. She swallowed hard.

The briefcase was ripped from her hand so suddenly, she jumped. The man who'd answered the door, 250 pounds of pure muscle, opened it, and slammed it closed again. "What is this, a joke?" he snapped at her.

"It's all I have," she cried. There was less than thirty thousand in the briefcase, but it really was all that she had. Furthermore, it was all that the team had available. They were going for broke.

"Tie her up," Roy ordered. "Maybe Paulie will be a little more cooperative if we let him know we got his sister."

Her thoughts raced as they wretched her arms behind her and lashed her wrists together tightly. Then she was grabbed by the arm and shoved roughly past the boxes. Had to think. She had to think, had to remember. Had to stay calm.

"You don't want to do this!"

She couldn't quite manage to keep the edge of fear out of her voice. Those were real guns, not toys. They could really kill her, right here and now. As her eyes came to rest on Hannibal and BA, the words came back to her suddenly.

"Listen, these… these two men you have in here, they're very important!"

"What?" Roy's voice stopped the man who was guiding her away. He turned her around roughly, and she nearly fell over as she tried to regain her balance. Roy stepped around the boxes, approaching her steadily. "What about them?"

"They're…" She swallowed hard, forcing her mind to stop racing, to remember her lines. "The Army sent me in here to find out if they're still alive," she said as steadily as she could manage. "And if I don't report back, they're going to come looking for me."

"The Army?" Roy cried. "What the hell does the army want with them?"

"I don't know." Jessica's heart was beating in her ears. "You'll have to ask them. But they _will _be here. They… they know who you are and… they'll shoot you if that's what it takes to get these guys back alive. And me."

The sudden burst of anger was punctuated by a blow. Jessica's head snapped to the side as Roy's fist connected with the side of her face. With a hand on her shoulder, he shoved her to the ground.

"Hey!" BA was on his feet in a flash. "Didn't no one ever teach you not to hit a lady?"

Just as fast, BA was staring down the barrel of a gun. "Siddown!" Roy yelled, pushing the pistol against his forehead. The intent was to knock him off balance and send him back a few steps. But BA was not easy to push around.

"I'm okay," Jessica said, reaching up to grab onto BA's pants. "Really. It's okay. I'm fine."

BA and Roy stared each other down for a long moment. Then Roy took a step back, taking his gun with him. He turned away after a few steps, and the two men who'd been behind him turned to follow. The one who'd been guiding her took a moment to jab the barrel of his rifle into BA's stomach - several times, until BA finally dropped to his knees. Jessica watched in horror, but didn't interfere. Finally, the last man left, and she reached a hand toward BA.

Hannibal was more concerned about her than BA. BA knew how much he could take and when to back down. "You okay?" Hannibal held her chin with his thumb, tipping her head so he could better see her bleeding lip.

"Those are the guys from the apartment," she whispered. "The ones who went after Paulie."

"Yeah, they're the ones that do Roy's dirty work," Hannibal said, letting go of her.

"Do they… work for him? Like… does this happen a lot with him?"

"I don't think so. Seems to me he hired the biggest, baddest guys he could track down because he doesn't have it in him to actually pull a trigger. But if they'd been working for him for any length of time, he would've figured out by now that they weren't particularly competent."

"Is that why they're here?" she asked. "To kill you?"

"Trust me, Roy is a lot more interested in your brother than he is in us. The blood won't start flowing until they bring your brother here." Hannibal paused. "Where's Face and Murdock? Did they find him?"

"Yes. And I'm supposed to tell you Colonel Lynch is on his way."

BA's face fell. "Man, I was hoping you'd have better news than that."

"Does your brother have the money?" Hannibal asked.

Jessica laughed, without humor. "Oh, Lord no. He's just as broke as ever. But he's alive."

"Hannibal, if Lynch is comin' here, we gotta get out. 'Fore he gets here."

"No, no, it's not like that," Jessica interrupted with a hand on his arm. "Face wanted me to tell you to stay put. Oh, and I'm wearing a transmitter. If you need to tell him anything, he can hear you. He or Murdock – one of them are listening."

Hannibal listened as she explained the basics of the plan. He could fill in the blanks. A smile crept across his face as he considered just how much it sounded like something he would do in the given situation. "I'm impressed, Face. I couldn't have planned it better myself."

"There's four men near the door armed with AKs." Hannibal talked quietly, careful not to be overheard. "They're just temporary hired muscle. Roy doesn't seem to me like the type to have a staff of his own. This warehouse belongs to a friend of his, but I don't think he's ever used it to hold hostages. We can get out of here without too much problem.

"There's boxes all over in here. The only ones I've been able to get into have car parts, but I wouldn't be surprised to find guns or drugs. There were lines of powder – maybe coke - on the table by the door so the guards may be high. As soon as we have a chance, we'll move to the back of the building. We'll let you know. There has to be another exit in a building this size."

"I have a hairpin in my shoe," Jessica said quietly. "Face told me to put it there, but I can't reach it."

"Turn around," Hannibal directed, turning his back to her. She came closer, and almost fell over in her attempt to kick her shoe off. After some maneuvering, Hannibal managed to get his hand inside and found the pin. This should be fun. He hadn't blindly picked a lock with a hairpin while his hands were twisted behind him in months…

"Roy is getting agitated," he said quietly as he worked at the lock. "Whatever he's involved in, I wouldn't go so far as to call him a professional. He's losing his cool. With a decent distraction, we should have no trouble moving from here to the back."

No sooner had he finished speaking than the sound of car tires on the gravel outside and a dozen or so car engines could be heard through the walls. "Who the hell is that?" Roy demanded.

Jessica's eyes were wide. "Face said there'd be sirens."

"Apparently, they didn't want to announce that they were here." Hannibal remained calm as he twisted the pin, a fraction further… then more… until he felt it catch. The cuff loosened, and he pulled his hand out of it. Immediately, he moved to BA and helped him to his feet, holding the pin in his teeth.

"That was fast!" Jessica cried. "They couldn't be here already!"

"Looks like Lynch was a bit anxious to get here," Hannibal answered distractedly. He turned to look at her briefly. "Just stay out of sight until the police come in here."

She smiled tightly and nodded. "I know what to do," she assured them.

Even if she didn't, there was no time to go over it again. Without another word, Hannibal turned and led the way back, away from the entrance toward the back of the building just as Lynch's voice echoed in the bullhorn. "We have you surrounded, Smith! Come out with your hands up!"

The distraction was perfect. "Shit! It's the Army! And they're everywhere!"

"What do you mean it's the Army?"

Hannibal and BA stayed down, winding their way through the narrow lanes between the boxes until they reached the back wall. Hannibal saw the exit immediately – a garage door with a chain pulley system. He paused for a moment, letting BA study it while he worked to uncuff his hands. There was no telling what they'd meet out there, and he didn't want to leave BA defenseless.

The frantic voices of the men at the front of the building echoed off of the high ceiling. Hannibal felt the lock click, and BA immediately pulled his hands apart, then moved to the chain on the side of the door. The noise was deafening, but brief. He raised it only a foot, and Hannibal dropped down to look outside. He saw Face.

"Brought you a present," the lieutenant smirked, dropping the strap of an AK-47 off of his shoulder and handing it down.

Hannibal smiled as he took the gun, stood back up, and fired half the clip into the ceiling. The chaos caused by the gunshot was beautiful. Guns fired, shouts of panic echoed, and Hannibal dropped down and rolled through the gap under the door, into the bright sunlight outside.

"Thought he said they had this place surrounded," he said as he rose to his feet.

"They do," Face informed. "There's a razor wire fence about fifty yards through that brush and they're all waiting on the other side of it."

"Where's Murdock?"

Face gestured. "He dropped me off. He'll be back as soon as they call off the dogs." He handed BA a weapon and turned toward the overgrowth in the direction of the razor wire fence. "I figure we wait it out. Once they go in, they'll realize what a big misunderstanding this was."

"How does that help us?" BA demanded. "Jessica's still in there. So is all our money."

Face grinned as he ducked down into the bushes. "Yeah, I know. And they'll find that too." Face sighed wistfully. "Poor Jessica, kidnapped and held against her will by the people who blew up her house. I think they'll be happy to make sure she _and _her money get to the proper authorities."

Hannibal chuckled. "Beautiful, Face. I love it."


	28. Chapter Twenty Seven

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN**

Face had been able to feel the eyes on him for several full minutes now. He didn't turn. He knew who it was. Finally, Hannibal approached the bar, and sat down on the stool next to him. With a gesture to the bartender, the colonel ordered a beer. But he didn't speak. He didn't say anything as the barkeep returned with the drink, took the money, and went on with his business. He didn't say anything as he drank, as he lit a cigar, as he finished the glass slowly and then gestured for another.

"I was seventeen when I came over here."

Still, Hannibal didn't speak. He didn't even seem to acknowledge Face. But he was listening. If he wasn't listening, he wouldn't still be here waiting for conversation.

"Badass. Nothing scared me, nothing shook me." Face paused, and swallowed hard. "Until the first time we got shelled."

_"What the fuck was that!"_

_ The young sergeant had hit the floor on instinct. Not even awake yet, he suddenly realized that his heart was pounding so hard in his chest, it felt like it was going to burst._

_ "They're shelling again." The man sounded almost calm, lying on the bunk next to him. He hadn't even bothered to drop to the floor. "If it makes you feel any better, you can grab your mattress and put it over you. Like they tell you in the drills."_

_ "If it makes me _feel _better?" Tem was screaming. He had to scream to be heard over the sound of another explosion. _

_ "One of those rockets hits this bunk, you won't even know what hit you."_

_ "Jesus Christ!"_

_ The ground trembled beneath him, and he reached up to grab the mattress, throwing it over top of him. He shook violently, shutting his eyes hard. He was going to die. He was going to die here! The next rocket was going to incinerate him and his mattress right where he lay! Suddenly, not one of those training drills made one goddamn bit of difference. Another rocket passed, so close he could hear it whistle, and he screamed as he turned his face to the floor, tears flowing from his eyes as he sobbed involuntarily._

"Realizing how… insignificant you are," Face whispered, staring at the bar top as he relived the memory. "How quickly you could be gone. They'd told me about death. I knew it was a possibility. But when it suddenly hit me that… it could be over so fast. In the blink of an eye. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. That hopeless, helpless… _terrified_ feeling. All the training, all the reconditioning… nothing could've prepared me for that feeling."

Hannibal said nothing. Face didn't really expect him to. After a long, lingering silence, he took a deep breath, and sat up a bit straighter as he continued slowly, hesitating on every word.

"Devon was with me at that camp. I think he realized that I didn't belong there."

_"You okay, kid?"_

_ No. He wasn't okay. Still shaking violently, face streaked with tears, he needed help just to sit up, to crawl out from under the mattress. The humiliation almost overruled the terror as he realized that he was covered in urine. "Oh, my God." Still shaking, he hid his face in his hands. _

_ "Your first time?"_

_ "Oh, God."_

_ "Hey. Look at me."_

_ Still trembling violently, Tem looked up. He wanted to curl into a ball and die. What was he doing here? What was he thinking, ever coming here?_

_ "What's your name, kid?"_

_ Tem swallowed hard, forcing the panic down, forcing the tears to stop. He stuttered a few times on his response before he finally managed to get it out. "Templeton. Peck. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."_

_ "It's okay, kid. Trust me, it's okay. I'm Devon." He offered a hand, and Tem shook it hesitantly. He was startled when Devon pulled him to his feet. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up." _

"I got into the Army to make something of myself," Face whispered. "I had no family, no future. That wasn't going to change. I was sixteen-years-old and I already felt like… I was dying. Like I'd seen everything there was to see. Stupid…"

He shook his head as he looked away, and fell silent for a long moment. He sipped his drink before he continued. "I wanted something more. I had people who cared, but they weren't going to be there for me forever. Not like family. The Army was the fastest, easiest way to get out of the situation I was in. And with the draft, I figured I'd end up there anyways, sooner or later."

"Why Special Forces?" Hannibal asked quietly.

"Becuse it was a challenge." Face reached into his pocket, searching for his cigarettes. "It was something they told me I couldn't do. Too young, scores too low on PT tests. I dug my heels in, did whatever I had to do. Just because they told me I couldn't."

_ "You scored 483 out of 500, private."_

_ Templeton stared at the sergeant, not entirely sure what that meant. Clearly, it meant something. He was waiting for a response._

_ "Is that good, Sir?"_

_ "Good?" The sergeant laughed. "It's the best fucking score I've ever seen."_

_ Templeton smiled._

_ "You ain't even old enough for Special Forces, boy. You gotta be nineteen. And you ain't that for another six months."_

_ Templeton licked his lips. "I'll be nineteen by the time I'm done with training, Sir."_

_ The sergeant's eyes burned into him. "I'll tell you what. I'm gonna push you through. But I'm gonna have my eye on you. And you'd damn well better shape up, boy. Bring those PT scores up and _prove _to me that you're Special Forces material. 'Cause I don't think you got it in you. And the last fuckin' thing I need is dead weight on one of my teams."_

"The recruiter didn't think I could do it. Made me that much more determined. But when I got here, I realized… he was right. I couldn't do this…" Face paused as he finally raised the cigarette he'd been staring at, and lit the end of it. "I'd never been so alone until I was at that camp. And it scared the shit out of me. Devon was the only thing that got me through that."

Licking his lips to bring moisture back to his mouth, Face dropped his lighter onto the bar, and took a deep drag on his cigarette. As he blew the smoke into the air, he stared down into the half-finished glass of whiskey. He swirled it a few times, but didn't raise it to his mouth.

"When he went into SOG, he wanted me to come. Took me a while to work up the nerve. When I finally did… my CO at the base, Captain Rikland, said that he hoped I wasn't going there for Devon because he was dead. And then you told me he wasn't."

Hannibal sighed deeply. "That _was _you, wasn't it?"

Face dragged on the cigarette. Didn't speak.

"You know, I never put it together that _you_ were the kid he'd talked about. Or even that you were that kid who came up to me asking about him."

Face didn't answer. A few more deep drags, and he leaned forward on the bar. "The thought that he was out there somewhere, still alive…" He glanced up at Hannibal, but quickly looked away. The silence lingered as he tapped the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, playing with the lit tip against the metal but not stubbing it out.

"It's all I thought about. It felt like all I had to live for. I was around all these guys who talked about their families back home and what it would be like to go back to them. And I began to realize that I didn't care if I ever went home. The only thing I cared about was finding the one person that made life bearable out here. And as I looked, and as time went on… and I pulled man after man out of those camps… I just started to go numb."

_ "Good job, Sergeant."_

_ Face looked up at the lieutenant, startled out of his silent reverie. "What?"_

_ A laugh answered him. "We just pulled three Americans out of a fuckin' POW camp, Face! Your instincts were right on. Fuck, man, you oughtta be leading this team."_

_ Face looked away. "No thank you."_

_ "Oh, come on, man, lighten up! Let me at least buy you a drink and celebrate."_

_ Face sighed as he stood up, pushing his chair back and turning away. "Some other time." It was all he said as he headed for the door of the club, avoiding eye contact with the other soldiers in the room._

"I wasn't stupid," Face sighed as he dragged once more on his cigarette, then put it out. "I knew the chances of ever finding Devon were slim to none. It got to where I wasn't doing it for him, and I wasn't doing it for the men I was actually pulling out, I was just doing it because it was what I did. What I was good at. And all those other things I was good at, I did them too. For no other reason than because… it's what I did. And then I met you."

Face could hear his voice cracking, and he paused to swallow hard, trying to push the emotion back down. So long living so cold, unable to feel and unable to even want to. Every day was the same as the one before. Get up, kill the enemy, fake smiles to the allies, lie down again. There was no yesterday, no tomorrow… just one long blur of blood and booze.

"I don't feel _anything_, Hannibal," he whispered. He didn't trust his voice above a whisper. He could hear it shake. "I can't feel. And I haven't, in so long, I don't even remember what… what it's like to feel. There's nothing left inside of me, damn it. It's all just numb and cold and… and worthless."

Face wanted to stop talking. He knew he was going to regret this later. But the words were escaping. Against his will, they poured from his mouth. He shut his eyes as they burned, and clenched his hands tightly around the glass. "These things that people talk about – that _you_ talk about. Trust and friendship and love… What the hell is any of that supposed to _feel _like, Hannibal? People have been telling me about this shit my entire life. And the closest I've ever come to feeling _any_ of it was for a guy that you let be taken by the VC. And whether you could've done anything about it or not, I…"

The tears fell, burning hot on his cheeks. He couldn't stop them, and he didn't try. Releasing the glass, he raised his hands to cover his eyes. Several long moments of silence passed before he took a deep breath, and lowered his hands slowly. With a strange sort of naked fear that he had never known before, he turned his head and caught Hannibal's gaze through the blur of tears.

"I don't know how to forgive you for that."

Hannibal watched him, not looking away. Face clenched his jaw, willing the tears to stop. But they only fell harder. Finally, Hannibal dropped his head a fraction. "If you ever figure it out," he whispered, "then let me know how you did it."

Face nearly broke down and sobbed in that moment, as he saw the glistening in the colonel's eyes. Hannibal could bite back the emotion. Face had no hope of doing that. He turned his head away, hid behind his hands, and breathed deep as he sobbed silently, shoulders shaking. Hannibal said nothing, did nothing, just let him cry quietly until finally, Face could feel his control slowly returning. Finally, he pushed his tear-dampened hands back through his greasy hair, leaning over his glass. Finally, he remembered he was in a public place, and that he _should _care about that, even if he didn't.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"It's okay."

It was all Hannibal offered. Face shut his eyes and swallowed hard, drawing in a few slow, deep breaths. He tipped the glass up again, and let the bitter liquor burn is throat. The silence lingered, and Face finally sighed.

"I know it doesn't mean much now," he whispered, much more composed now. "But the pictures are in a safety deposit box at the central bank in Saigon. You probably should go get them before they clear the box out and someone else finds them."

Hannibal was quiet. Face lit another cigarette, and finished the rest of his drink. For a moment, it gave him something else to think about as he gestured to the bartender to bring him another one.

"Why did you take the pictures in the first place?" Hannibal asked.

Face sighed. It was a genuine question, not an accusation. Which meant that it deserved a genuine answer, and not a comeback. Crossing his arms on the bar in front of him, Face leaned forward on them heavily. "I don't know. Cruiser said something to me. I think he hit the nail right on the head." He glanced up as the bartender refilled the glass, and took another slow drag on his cigarette. "He asked me if I just _had _to have collateral on everyone in authority over me. And yeah. That's… about as close to an explanation as I can get."

"I figured as much," Hannibal answered. "But that's not what I mean."

Face glanced at him, and they locked stares. Face had to resist the immediate and instinctive urge to look away. "What do you mean?"

"Why?"

Face shook his head, not understanding.

"Why can't you trust me, kid?"

Face felt an inexplicable flash of fear. He swallowed hard as he looked away.

"Jesus, Face, why didn't you just _ask _me about Devon? If you had asked me about him just once, I would've told you everything."

Face shook his head, eyes closed. "It's not that easy."

"I know it's not." Hannibal's voice was full of emotion, even if he was doing a damn good job of keeping it off of his face. "You wouldn't have heard a word of it. Why?"

Head still shaking, Face answered low. "I don't know."  
"Why, Face?"

Face took a drink. "I told you, I –"

"Damn it, _why_!"

"Because I _can't_!" He slammed the glass down hard, and the liquor spilled onto his hand. As he turned to look at Hannibal, his eyes were full of pain. "What do you want from me? I can't _do _this. I can't be what you want me to be!"

"No," Hannibal said flatly, ignoring the glances of the men around the room, turning to see what the yelling was about. "You _can _trust me, kid. And you don't have to manipulate me or blackmail me or play games with me."

Face shut his eyes and hid his eyes with his hand. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Hannibal, it's not about _you_. It's about me."

"Well _make _it about me, then!"

Face dropped his hand, and stared up at Hannibal blankly, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

"Look, I can't change what other people you've trusted have done to fuck you over. I can't make you innocent and naïve again. I can't make you feel like everyone's looking out for your wellbeing, like you're safe, like it's okay to wear your heart on your sleeve. I can't do that, Face, and if I could, I wouldn't _want _to. There's a _reason_ you're like that. And when this is all over and you go back and try to make sense of that life you left behind you, you're gonna need it. But damn it, Face, you can trust _me_. Not people, not commanding officers, not other soldiers or even teammates. Me. This person. Right here. Who would die, kill, lie, steal, and go to fucking _hell _for you!"

Face didn't answer him. He just stared. Hannibal returned it for a long moment, then looked away, taking a long drink. The silence stretched, and Hannibal shut his eyes, leaning forward with his head in his hand.

"Look. What is it gonna take, Face?"

Face hesitated for a long moment. "What do you mean?"

"What's it gonna take to get through to you?" Hannibal shot a pointed look in his direction. "You want power? You want blackmail? Because I can give you shit that's a hell of a lot more potent than Elaine if that's what you want."

Face stared at him, bewildered. Hannibal saw it in his eyes, but he didn't pause.

"You want freedom? Respect? Loyalty? I've already given you all that. Publicly. Any soldier and any officer of _any _rank knows better than to talk you down in my presence. So what's it gonna take, Face? What's it gonna take to make you trust me?"

"Why do you care?"

Hannibal sighed, exasperated. "Because, Lieutenant. For all of your skill, and all of your instinct, and all of your talent, you are useless to me if you can't trust me. And if I can't trust you."

"That's not what I mean."

Hannibal stared at him, waiting for him to clarify. Eyes locked, Face hesitated a long moment before he continued.

"I'm already useless to you," he said quietly. "You've already washed your hands of this. And rightly so. So why the hell are we even having this conversation?"

Hannibal looked away.

"I knew you'd know where to find me," Face said quietly. "I figured you'd come. Just didn't figure you'd come to sit here and have some long, drawn-out talk with me about trust."

Hannibal sighed. "That's because you don't know me, Face." He turned, and met the Lieutenant's stare. "And you still think that I can just turn my head and _forget _about one of my men."

Face stared.

Hannibal sat up, finished his beer, and pushed the glass aside. "Look, Face, this is your decision. And it is a _decision_, not a feeling. You either decide, right now, that you're going to trust me, even though it scares the hell out of you, or you decide that you're going to force my hand. And you can do that, Face. You can control the outcome of this situation. You can win this fight between you and me and _force _me to do something that I don't want to do. And you will end up in a military prison, just as alone as you were in that camp. Because I swear to God, Face, you will never find a place where you are _less _alone than right here in this team. And if you can't feel that, then you are never going to feel a goddamn thing."

Hannibal stood, and tossed a few bills on the bar next to the empty glass. "Choose to be in that cell in one hour, Lieutenant," he said flatly. "Choose to submit, choose to apologize, and choose to do everything you can to repair the damage you've done to this team. Or choose not to. But if you choose not to, I would strongly suggest that you get the hell out of dodge. Because I'd hate to see you spend the rest of your life in an 8x10 cell. It's in your hands. Make your decision."

Without another word, Hannibal turned, and walked away.


	29. Chapter Twenty Eight

**CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT**

"It should all be there," Jessica said as she handed the briefcase to Hannibal. Paulie's eyes lingered on it, but he remained quiet and still. "I think that colonel – Lynch? - knew you were involved, but there wasn't much he could do once he realized you were gone. And I didn't tell him anything."

Hannibal smirked. "That's just the way I like it."

Face watched silently, leaning on the hood of the van. Hannibal passed the briefcase to him, but he didn't open it. He'd count it later. Right now, there were other things on his mind.

"They called in the locals and took my statement. Between the unlicensed firearms and shooting at the military police, they're in a heap of trouble. Not to mention the kidnapping. And if the DA can prove that they were the ones responsible for bombing the house…"

"Where you gonna stay?" BA asked. He had a kid on each wrist – Heather on his right and James on his left. It never ceased to amaze Face how children just seemed to gravitate toward him.

"Well, the kids have really enjoyed the camping," Jessica observed. "Maybe we'll just stay out here a while. It's not so far that I can't drive to work and we have to wait for the insurance to get all worked out. Once school starts, we'll have to go back but…"

"Really?" Heather's eyes lit up. "You mean we can camp longer?"

"As long as Momma doesn't have a problem with it," Jessica answered.

"Will you stay with us?" James questioned, looking first at BA and then Face.

"I'm sure they have other things they need to take care of," Jessica replied for them.

"But –"

"Who wants to build a fire?" Momma called, stepping around the tent. "I think we should cook hotdogs for dinner. We've got more than enough for everybody."

"BA, will you help us build a fire?" Heather pleaded, tugging him toward the fire pit.

James pulled from the other side. "Yeah, show us how!"

The rest of the team watched him go along with the children. "So, Paulie, what kind of plans do _you _have?" Hannibal asked, pointedly.

Face glanced at him, hoping for a good answer to that question.

Paulie shifted anxiously. "Uh, well… um…"

"Whatever they are," Jessica said firmly, "they'd better involve you leaving me and my family well enough alone."

Paulie studied her for a moment, then laughed tensely. "I… I don't wanna cause no problems for you and the kids, Jessie."

Jessica nodded, and crossed her arms over her chest, watching him. After a few tense moments of silence, he turned away and headed after the children. "Hey, let's find some sticks for the hot dogs!"

With a brief exchange of glances and a nod, Murdock and Hannibal followed behind him, leaving Face and Jessica standing in front of the van. She lowered her eyes as he turned toward her. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"You're welcome," he answered sincerely.

"For what it's worth…" She paused for a long moment, and he wondered if she had any intention of finishing. Finally, she drew her eyes up to his. "You're welcome to… call." She shrugged. "If you want. You don't have to."

He nodded, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he watched her carefully. "I might just do that." He wasn't quite sure, at first, how honest that statement was. But a quick glance at the two children heading into the trees settled that yes, he would at least have to call her to see how they were all doing.

"And anytime you want to go camping…" She trailed off with a laugh.

He smiled tightly. "Actually, camping is… not exactly on my list of enjoyable things to do."

"Well, thank you then." She lowered her head, pushing her hair back from her face. "It's been… I think it was a good idea. For the kids."

He nodded again, and rocked back on his heels as the silence stretched.

There were an awful lot of things still unsaid. But he wasn't about to say them. After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, she gestured over her shoulder. "You want to um…?"

"No," he said softly. "Actually, I think…" He cast a lingering look at the boy hanging two feet off the ground from BA's bicep. "I think I'm gonna go for a walk."

"Are you okay?"

He forced a smile, and nodded. After a brief hesitation, she returned it, then turned and headed toward the fire pit. Face watched her go, and let his smile fall. He set the briefcase inside the van, in front of the passenger seat, and turned away from the laughter echoing from the campsite. As he started down the road with his hands deep in his pockets, Hannibal leaned on the back of the van and watched him go.

**1969**

The MPs outside of the stockade saluted before opening the door for Colonel Smith. Inside, several more rose to their feet. "At ease. I'm here for Lieutenant Peck."

He could feel the tension in the room. The nervous shifting hidden under practiced calm. He ignored it. If Face wasn't here, he certainly wasn't going to take it out on these guards. But they didn't know that.

"He's in the dispensary, Sir."

"The dispensary? Why?"

"He had a wound on his arm, Sir. It looked pretty bad and it was bleeding."

"How long ago did he leave?"

"A few hours ago, Sir."

"A few hours ago?" Hannibal repeated incredulously. "Why is it taking hours to dress a wound on his arm?"

"I'm… not sure, Sir. I'll call over there right now and find out."

"Do that."

Hannibal turned and took a few steps toward the window. If Face was not here, it would seem that he'd made his choice. They would call the dispensary, find out he was not there, and apologize profusely as they all scrambled to figure out where in the hell he disappeared to.

"This is Sergeant Aaron Pesker. I'm looking for Lieutenant Templeton Peck? He was sent over with Specialist Rayor and Private Adanai more than two hours ago and his commanding officer is looking for him." The sergeant paused. "They did?" Hannibal turned, and watched as the blood drained out of the man's face. "_How_ long ago?"

Indeed, Face was gone. As he hung up the phone, the sergeant rose shakily to his feet. "Uh… Sir… there's been a slight… mix up, Sir, but we _will _find Lieutenant Peck rightaway!"

No, they wouldn't. As Hannibal watched them scramble for the phones and radios, he wondered how far away Face was by now. An hour wasn't very long, but the kid had always been resourceful. Hannibal realized with a detached sort of sadness that he could be halfway to Perth by now. Or Paris. He did speak fluent French, after all. He'd never thought to ask him where he'd learned it…

All commotion in the room stopped suddenly as the door opened. Hannibal turned and blinked in surprise as Lieutenant Templeton Peck stepped into the room in clean fatigues, freshly shaven, a wide-eyed MP on either side – quite unable to hide their fear at the part they were supposed to play in this charade. Hannibal hid his smile, hid all visible reaction as he turned fully and faced the three of them.

"You're supposed to be in your cell, Lieutenant."

"Sorry." Face's eyes lowered slightly, submissively. After a pause, he looked up again. "I got lost."

There was more in those words than a simple excuse. Hannibal could feel it more acutely than he could hear it. It was as close as he would ever get to an apology, and it was enough. Whatever it was lacking in eloquence, it made up for in sincerity. And for that, it was worth a thousand words.

Face raised his eyes, but kept his head lowered. Hannibal nodded as he watched him. "I understand." Apology accepted. Face lowered his eyes again.

"You two."

The two MPs snapped to attention instantly. "Sir!"

"You are to be commended for finding him. He does have a tendency to get lost from time to time." The look of terror turned to one of confusion, and Hannibal looked toward the man at the desk. "Give me his gun and his paperwork. I'll escort him to Saigon myself." He cast another glance at Face, who raised his eyes at the gaze. But his head stayed lowered. "Maybe I'll be able to prevent him from getting lost again."

Face _almost _succeeded in biting back his smile, and dropped his head lower as Hannibal took his weapon, and the report, and approached him steadily. "Move it, Lieutenant. Before I embarrass you in front of all these people."

"Yes, Sir."

Face complied instantly. And as he followed him out the door and into the scorching sunlight outside, Hannibal didn't even try to hide his smile.

**1978**

"Face?"

The lieutenant looked up briefly, then turned his eyes back to the water, pulling his arm back and skipping the stone over the glassy surface.

Hannibal didn't say anything more, just sat down next to him. For a long moment, it was silent. Then, finally, Face sighed deeply. "Those kids…"

He never finished. He didn't have to.

"What are you going to do about it?" Hannibal asked after the silence lingered for a few more minutes.

Face laughed, without humor. "Hell, I don't know. She doesn't want me to do anything and I guess that's a good thing. 'Cause I don't have a clue…" He trailed off, shaking his head slightly as he skipped another stone over the surface. "She never even told me, Hannibal."

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment before answering. "Eight years ago, would you have even wanted to know?"

"That's not the point."

"What is?"

Face hid his eyes. "I'm supposed to feel something. Some kind of connection. And I don't. Not for them, not for her. _She _feels it. I can look at her and tell that she feels it. And I don't want to lead her on by coming around when to be perfectly honest, I don't want a damn thing to do with her."

"Don't force it, Face."

"Force it? I can't force it if I _tried_. I've been down that road and we both know how it ends."

Hannibal paused, considering that. It was sincere - brutally so – with no attempt to sugar coat it. Face didn't give a damn about women, as a rule. Hannibal didn't know all of his reasons, and he didn't care. The fact of the matter was as raw as it was simple: Face had no concept of love. He understood responsibility. He understood friendship – maybe even with women. But there was no guarantee that Jessica would understand that. Especially if she was raising his children.

"You know, Face," Hannibal hesitated while he reached for his cigar, "maybe the nature of love is a lot like the nature of trust."

Face glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

Hannibal stared out at the water, but he could feel the kid's eyes on him. "You can't feel _anything _for someone you don't know."

"I don't know them," Face admitted quietly. "I don't know any of them. And I'm not sure that I want to."

"Why not?"

"Well, she sure as hell doesn't want me to. Seems to me the best thing to do is leave well enough alone."

"Getting to know them is a hell of a lot different than stepping into a role."

"I just don't want to lead her on, Hannibal."

"So tell her that."

"Her _or _her kids."

Hannibal was quiet. But finally, he pushed himself up off the ground, reaching into his pocket for his lighter. "Well, Face, looks like you've got some decisions to make then. And I'm certainly not one to ask for advice on love and family. But for what it's worth, you're gonna regret it if you don't keep in touch with those kids. _That_, I can promise you."

Face didn't immediately answer, and Hannibal didn't wait around to see what he would come up with. Without another word, he turned and walked away, heading back to the campsite.


	30. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

**1968**

Sergeant Templeton Peck was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol he'd been drinking for the past two hours. But he wasn't showing it. He was very careful not to show it. Sitting on a stool in the Da Nang bar that catered to American soldiers, his eyes drifted over each of the patrons. Some of them had clumped together into groups. Some had found escape in the arms of the women who made a living at places like this. Some, like him, had just come here to get away.

Elbows on the bar top, he closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair, holding his head. His glass was empty again. If he drank much more, he was going to have some difficulty finding the floor when it was time to move. Then again, maybe he could just stay here. Maybe he could just drink until he passed out. He wondered if anyone would think to carry him back to the base. He wondered if it was a bad thing that he didn't really care.

"What're you drinking, kid?"

He glanced to the side at the man in green fatigues who'd just sat down in the chair next to him. "What's it to you?"

"Is that your way of saying you're too drunk to remember?"

Peck rolled his eyes as he looked away. "Go to hell," he mumbled under his breath.

"That'd be 'go to hell, sir,'" the man corrected. Peck glanced at him again, skeptically, and watched as he gestured to the bartender. "Colonel John Smith," he finally introduced.

Peck gave a deep sigh, turning his head completely in the opposite direction. "You'll forgive me if I don't salute," he mumbled under his breath.

"I understand you're facing a court martial."

At that, Peck turned back to look at him. What the hell? Did this guy know him? Had he sought him out? He looked immediately at his patch, but he wasn't police. He was Special Forces, just like Peck. "If I was facing a court martial," Peck tested, "what the hell would I be doing off base?"

Smith turned to him and smirked. "Bet it has something to do with that pretty lady keeping the guards busy. Or maybe the hash the MPs were smoking in the guard shack?"

Peck's eyes narrowed as he slid off the barstool. "You're barkin' up the wrong tree here, sir," Peck said dryly. He was pleased to find that he could not only stand, but he could walk without tripping over his feet.

Unfortunately, the colonel followed him.

"You want to tell me about this court martial, kid?"

What did he have to do to get this guy to go away? "Nothing to tell," he answered. "Sorry."

Smith followed him all the way out the door and down the street. "Are you guilty?"

Peck chuckled a little. Somehow, he was not surprised that he'd just been asked that. This guy was direct. Peck determined that he might as well be just as direct. One good turn deserved another, and it wasn't like he could get into any more trouble than he already was. "Guilty as sin, Sir," he answered, with pride. "Why? You want to be my lawyer?"

"Why'd you do it?"

With a roll of his eyes, Peck started walking again. "Which part?"

"Start with the part about how you enlisted at age sixteen."

"I was bored, Sir."

"You were still a kid. Were you even out of high school?"

No answer. Peck didn't owe him an answer. He didn't owe him anything.

"Alright, well, care to explain any of the other charges?"

Peck dug his hands into the pockets of his fatigues as he kept walking. It helped him keep his balance on the slightly uneven ground. "Not particularly, Sir."

"You know you're going to have a difficult time at trial if you don't learn how to talk about these things."

"Well, I guess that's my problem, now isn't it?"

"I think the problem is a little larger than just you."

Peck stopped suddenly and turned to face him. The movement was a little too fast, and he nearly lost his balance. He tried not to let it show. "Look. What the hell do you want from me?"

"Maybe I want to help you."

Peck studied him carefully, eyes narrowed. "Why the hell would you want to help me?" he demanded. Two decades worth of cynicism was held in that simple question.

"You tell me," Smith gestured. His eyes were scanning the street, on guard against any attack from any direction, even though he wasn't expecting one. These streets were supposedly friendly. "You're pretty good at selling yourself, Peck." He glanced to the man walking slowly beside him. "Convince me that I want to help you make your problems go away."

Peck considered it carefully, then shook his head as he looked away. "I don't think so, Sir."

Smith laughed. "Oh, come on. Why not?"

"Because I don't trust you as far as I could throw you," Peck answered simply. "I'll take my chances with the court martial."

"Any particular reason?" Smith asked, curious.

"Because nobody's motives are that pure," Peck replied. He stopped walking, and turned to face the older man. "If you're here to negotiate the terms of getting me out of this mess, it's because you want something from me."

Smith stopped walking as well, and faced him. "That's a fair assumption."

"And if you've seen my file, you know that they pulled up a list of charges a mile long just as soon as they started looking for dirt in my record. And I can't imagine what you want that's worth that."

It was then that Peck noticed Smith happened to have the file in his hand. He flipped it open and read from it. "Fraudulent enlistment, failure to obey orders, wrongful possession of a controlled substance," Smith recounted. "Fourteen counts of failure to report captured property? Fourteen? Really?"

Peck stared back at him, not amused.

"Ten counts of dealing in captured property," Smith went on. "Impersonating a commissioned officer."

The long list of charges was beginning to irritate the younger man. "That was a long time ago."

"Altering public records. Pandering?"

"That was a misunderstanding," Peck defended, pointing a determined finger at Smith.

"And all of that is not to mention the more recent resisting apprehension and – if they find you out here - breaking arrest." He tipped his head a little. "How _did_ you get off that base, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Look, are you here to take me back?" Peck shot, losing whatever calm he had managed to hold on to this far. "Because I won't argue with you. All I've got left to do is plop down on my ass and wait for them to prep this court martial. I'm pulling 6-to-forever in the stockade before I let you stand here and hold this shit over my head like you're going to use it to negotiate a deal I'm not interested in." His eyes narrowed into slits. "If you've got something to say, then say it. And when you're done, you can march your ass right back to camp and file another Article 89. My goal is to accumulate another ten before I actually stand trial."

Smith watched him, amused by the fiery anger in his eyes. The kid was like a powder keg, and his current situation was almost enough to ignite him. But even when blinded by the stress of a court martial and a list of charges he would never escape, two things about Templeton Peck stood out. The first was that he'd managed to waltz out of the base while under arrest. The second was that he hadn't gone far. He wasn't running, even when he probably should have been. The best he could hope for if he went to trial was a few years in prison and a dishonorable discharge.

"You have a death wish, kid?" Smith asked, genuinely curious.

Peck turned away. "Fuck you."

Smith made the instantaneous decision to take a very calculated risk, just to see what would happen. He grabbed Peck's shoulder. The response was quick, and exactly what he'd expected. But Peck's fist never connected with his jaw. With one arm, Smith blocked it and the other arm went to the younger, slightly drunken man's neck, driving him off the street and into the alley beside them before he could regain his balance. His back hit the wall hard and before he had a chance to counter, there was a pistol against his lower ribs. He froze.

"I'll ask you again," Smith said calmly. "Do you have a death wish?"

The wide-eyed look of shock and horror was priceless. Smith relished it for a moment, then stepped back, taking his arm from Peck's throat and placing his weapon back in its holster. He could almost see the gears turning in the younger man's head as he comprehended the number of articles that had just been violated in the span of five seconds – by both of them. But he'd been shocked into silence, and it was exactly the effect that Smith had been looking for.

"I'm going to make this simple," he started, pulling a half-finished cigar out of his breast pocket and a lighter from the pocket in his pants. Then he glanced back up at Peck. The look of surprise still hadn't faded. He hadn't expected it to.

"I'm putting together a special team. You've come highly recommended."

"What kind of team?" Peck demanded, finally recovering his voice.

"An SOG unit."

"Recon?"

"Some of it."

"Off the books?"

Hannibal grinned. Peck knew this game. "Some of it." He paused for a long moment while he lit the cigar. "No money, no medals, and if - by chance - we fail at any point -" The shock on the younger man's face was slowly fading into a serious look that was completely void of emotion. Smith watched him to make sure he was catching these words. "- your current charges would be the least of your concern."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Peck asked quietly, calmly. The way he was watching him, Smith knew he understood every word.

"You come with me, I'll make you no promises. You'll probably never see home again. You probably won't even live 'til the end of the month." Hannibal's eyes darkened. "But you'll take a hell of a lot of those VC bastards down with you."

"If you're trying to sell me something, you're doin' a piss poor job of it."

"Oh, I think it sells itself," Smith grinned, putting the situation back into perspective. "You came here to kill VC. You went up to CCN to do it in Cambodia, and Laos. You can either stay here and do what you came to do… or you can go to prison. Your choice."

Peck glared back. "You think I've got nothing to lose," he realized. "That's why you're here. Why you've come to me."

"No," Smith answered instantly, simply.

"You must be pretty desperate, huh?" Peck smirked, not buying the colonel's confidence.

Smith laughed. "Oh, trust me, I'm not desperately seeking out people to put on this team and taking what I can get. The stakes are a little too high for me to do something that stupid."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's going to take an awful lot of string-pulling to get you reassigned to me and with a clean slate," Hannibal continued, ignoring the question. "I can think of quite a few soldiers who are more available, and less insubordinate."

"Then why the hell are we talking?" Peck demanded again, his voice almost a growl.

"Because you hold the record on POW snatches and every man I've talked to says you're good on the ground. Because I've talked to your CO, and to your team, and I've heard their version of your captured property charges. Because they tell me you have a way with people – although I certainly wouldn't guess it from looking at you right now – and you can get things. Materials, equipment, medical supplies – things that nobody else can find. Because your test scores are eye catching. Because you're 21 – or is it 18? – years old and you've already done a full rotation in 'Nam and extended it to join SOG. And because when I came looking for you in the stockade," he smiled broadly, "I found you in a bar. So tell me, kid. About that death wish of yours."

Peck stared at him, eyes narrowed, clearly cautious and more than a little skeptical. "First, you tell me," he demanded, leaning back against the brick wall with his arms crossed over his chest. "Why do they call you Hannibal?"

Smith grinned around the cigar. So his reputation preceded him after all.

**Vexx: You didn't leave a signed review so I couldn't answer directly. But I guess this really should be said to all anyways! :-P This book is number two in a series of (right now) fifteen. (No joke.) Most of them can be read out of order. But if you enjoyed this book, "Scars of War" was the first in the series and is here on or on my website with illustrations. "Push Me" is the next book in the series and is, of all that I've written so far, probably the most important for understanding why I write the characters the way I do. It's dark, it's dirty, and it's gritty. And it's absolutely essential if you want to understand my take on character relationships - esp Face/Murdock. Thanks for the feedback!**


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